PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 


PARTNERS  OF 
CHANCE • 


BY 


HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 

Author  of  "  The  Ridin'  Kid  from  Powder  River  " 
"Sundown  Slim,"  "  Overland  Red,"  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

<£fre  JtorsiDe  presrf  Cambritige 
1921 


A?  f 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,   BY   STREET   &   SMITH   CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT,    IQZI,   BY   HENRY   HERBERT    KNIBBS 

ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

I.  LITTLE  JIM  1 

II.  PANHANDLE  9 

III.  A  MINUTE  TOO  LATE  21 

IV.  "A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER"  29 
V.  "Top  HAND  ONCE"  38 

VI.  A  HORSE-TRADE  56 

VII.  AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  72 

VIII.  HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  84 

IX.  AT  THE  Box-S  97 

X.    To  TRY  HIM  OUT  105 

XL  PONY  TRACKS  112 

XII.  JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN  121 

XIII.  AT  AUNT  JANE'S  130 

XIV.  ANOTHER  GAME  142 
XV.  MORE  PONY  TRACKS  165 

XVI.  SAN  ANDREAS  TOWN  172 

XVII.  THAT  MESCAL  184 

XVIII.  JOE  SCOTT  194 

XIX.  DORRY  COMES  TO  TOWN  202 

XX.  ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  211 

XXL  "  GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE"  228 

XXII.  Box-S  BUSINESS  237 

XXIII.  THE  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL  246 

XXIV.  CHEYENNE  PLAYS  BIG  254 
XXV.  Two  TRAILS  HOME  262 


459183 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

CHAPTER  I 

LITTLE   JIM 

LITTLE  JIM  knew  that  something  strange  had 
happened,  because  Big  Jim,  his  father,  had  sold 
their  few  head  of  cattle,  the  work  team,  and  the 
farm  implements,  keeping  only  the  two  saddle- 
horses  and  the  pack-horse,  Filaree.  When 
Little  Jim  asked  where  his  mother  had  gone, 
Big  Jim  told  him  that  she  had  gone  on  a  visit, 
and  would  be  away  a  long  time.  Little  Jim 
wanted  to  know  if  his  mother  would  ever  come 
back.  When  Big  Jim  said  that  she  would  not, 
Little  Jim  manfully  suppressed  his  tears,  and, 
being  of  that  frontier  stock  that  always  has  an 
eye  to  the  main  chance,  he  thrust  out  his  hand. 
"Well,  I'll  stick  with  you,  dad.  I  reckon  we 
can  make  the  grade." 

Big  Jim  turned  away  and  stood  for  a  long 
time  gazing  out  of  the  cabin  window  toward 
town.  Presently  he  felt  a  tug  at  his  coat-sleeve. 

"Is  ma  gone  to  live  in  town?" 

"Yes." 


2  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  get  her?" 
"She  don't  want  to  come  back,  Jimmy." 
Little  Jim  could  not  understand  this.  Yet 
he  had  often  heard  his  mother  complain  of  their 
life  on  the  homestead,  and  as  often  he  had 
watched  his  father  sitting  grimly  at  table,  saying 
nothing  in  reply  to  his  wife's  querulous  com- 
plainings. The  boy  knew  that  his  father  had 
worked  hard  to  make  a  home.  They  had  all 
worked  hard.  But,  then,  that  had  seemed  the 
only  thing  to  do. 

Presently  Big  Jim  swung  round  as  though  he 
had  made  a  decision.  He  lighted  the  lamp  iirthe 
kitchen  and  made  a  fire.  Little  Jim  scurried  out 
to  the  well  with  a  bucket.  Little  Jim  was  a 
hustler,  never  waiting  to  be  told  what  to  do. 
His  mother  was  gone.  He  did  not  know  why. 
But  he  knew  that  folks  had  to  eat  and  sleep  and 
work.  While  his  father  prepared  supper,  Little 
Jim  rolled  up  his  own  shirt-sleeves  and  washed 
vigorously.  Then  he  filled  the  two  glasses  on 
the  table,  laid  the  plates  and  knives  and  forks, 
and  finding  nothing  else  to  do  in  the  house,  just 
then,  he  scurried  out  again  and  returned  with 
his  small  arms  filled  with  firewood. 

Big  Jim  glanced  at  him.     "I  guess  we  don't 


LITTLE  JIM  8 

need  any  more  wood,  Jimmy.  We'll  be  leaving 
in  the  morning." 

"What?    Leavin'  here?" 

His  father  nodded. 

"Goin'  to  town,  dad?" 

"No.     South." 

"Just  us  two,  all  alone?" 

"Yes.     Don't  you  want  to  go?" 

"Sure!    But  I  wish  ma  was  comin',  too." 

Big  Jim  winced.  "So  do  I,  Jimmy.  But  I 
guess  we  can  get  along  all  right.  How  would 
you  like  to  visit  Aunt  Jane,  down  in  Arizona?" 

"Where  them  horn  toads  and  stingin'  lizards 
are?" 

"Yes — and  Gila  monsters  and  all  kinds  of 
critters." 

"Gee!  Has  Aunt  Jane  got  any  of  'em  on  her 
ranch?" 

Big  Jim  forced  a  smile.     "I  reckon  so." 

Little  Jim's  face  was  eager.  "Then  I  say, 
let's  go.  Mebby  I  can  get  to  shoot  one.  Hunt- 
in'  is  more  fun  than  workin'  all  the  time.  I 
guess  ma  got  tired  of  workin',  too.  She  said 
that  was  all  she  ever  expected  to  do,  'long  as  we 
lived  out  here  on  the  ranch.  But  she  never 
told  me  she  was  goin'  to  quit." 


4  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"She  didn't  tell  me,  either,  Jimmy.  But  you 
wouldn't  understand." 

Jimmy  puckered  his  forehead.  "I  guess  ma 
kind  of  throwed  us  down,  didn't  she,  dad?" 

"We'll  have  to  forget  about  it,"  said  Big 
Jim  slowly.  "Down  at  Aunt  Jane's  place  in — " 

"Somethin'  5s  burnin',  dad!" 

Big  Jim  turned  to  the  stove.  Little  Jim 
gazed  at  his  father's  back  critically.  There 
was  something  in  the  stoop  of  the  broad  shoul- 
ders that  was  unnatural,  strange — -something 
that  caused  Little  Jim  to  hesitate  in  his  ques- 
tioning. Little  Jim  idolized  his  father,  and, 
with  unfailing  intuition,  believed  in  him  to  the 
last  word.  As  for  his  mother,  who  had  left 
without  explanation  and  would  never  return — • 
Little  Jim  missed  her,  but  more  through  habit  of 
association  than  with  actual  grief. 

He  knew  that  his  mother  and  father  had  not 
gotten  along  very  well  for  some  time.  And  now 
Little  Jim  recalled  something  that  his  mother 
had  said :  "He's  as  much  your  boy  as  he  is  mine, 
Jim  Hastings,  and,  if  you  are  set  on  sending  him 
to  school,  for  goodness'  sake  get  him  some  decent 
clothes,  which  is  more  than  I  have  had  for  many 
a  year." 

Until  then  Jimmy  had  not  realized  that  his 


LITTLE  JIM  5 

clothing  or  his  mother's  was  other  than  it  should 
be.  Moreover,  he  did  not  want  to  go  to  school. 
He  preferred  to  work  on  the  ranch  with  his 
father.  But  it  was  chiefly  the  tone  of  his 
mother's  voice  that  had  impressed  him.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  young  life,  Little  Jim  felt 
that  he  was  to  blame  for  something  which  he 
could  not  understand.  He  was  accustomed  to 
his  mother's  sudden  fits  of  unreasonable  anger, 
often  followed  by  a  cuff,  or  sharp  reprimand. 
But  she  had  never  mentioned  his  need  of  better 
clothing  before,  nor  her  own  need. 

As  for  being  as  much  his  father's  boy  as 
his  mother's — Little  Jim  felt  that  he  quite 
agreed  to  that,  and,  if  anything,  that  he  be- 
longed more  to  his  father,  who  was  kind  to  him, 
than  to  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Little  Jim, 
trying  to  reason  it  out,  now  thought  that  he 
knew  why  his  mother  had  left  home.  She  had 
gone  to  live  in  town  that  she  might  have  better 
clothes  and  be  with  folks  and  not  wear  her 
fingers  to  the  bone  simply  for  a  bed  and  three 
meals  a  day,  as  Little  Jim  had  heard  her  say 
more  than  once. 

But  the  trip  to  Aunt  Jane's,  down  in  Arizona, 
was  too  vivid  in  his  imagination  to  allow  room  for 
pondering.  Big  Jim  had  said  they  were  to  leave 


6  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

in  the  morning.  So,  while  supper  was  cooking, 
Little  Jim  slipped  into  his  bedroom  and  busied 
himself  packing  his  own  scant  belongings. 
Presently  his  father  called  him.  Little  Jim 
plodded  out  bearing  his  few  spare  clothes  corded 
in  a  neat  bundle,  with  an  old  piece  of  canvas  for 
the  covering.  His  father  had  taught  him  to  pack. 

Big  Jim  stared.  Then  a  peculiar  expression 
flitted  across  his  face.  Little  Jim  was  always 
for  the  main  chance. 

"I'm  all  hooked  up  to  hit  the  trail,  dad." 

In  his  small  blue  overalls  and  jumper,  in  his 
alert  and  manful  attitude,  Little  Jim  was  a 
pocket  edition  of  his  father. 

"Where's  your  shootin'-iron?"  queried  Big 
Jim  jokingly. 

"Why,  she's  standin'  in  the  corner,  aside  of 
yours.  A  man  don't  pack  his  shootin'-iron  in 
his  bed-roll  when  he  hits  the  trail.  He  keeps  her 
handy." 

"For  stingin'  lizards,  eh?" 

"For  'most  anything.  Stingin'  lizards,  In- 
juns, or  hoss-thieves,  or  anything  that  we  kin 
shoot.  We  ain't  takin'  no  chances  on  this  here 
trip." 

Big  Jim  gestured  toward  the  table  and  pulled 
up  his  chair.  Little  Jim  was  too  heartily  inter- 


LITTLE  JIM  7 

ested  in  the  meal  to  notice  that  his  father  gazed 
curiously  at  him  from  time  to  time.  Until  then, 
Big  Jim  had  thought  of  his  small  son  as  a 
chipper,  sturdy,  willing  boy — his  boy.  But 
now,  Little  Jim  seemed  suddenly  to  have  be- 
come an  actual  companion,  a  partner,  a  sharer 
in  things  as  they  were  and  were  to  be. 

Hard  work  and  inherent  industry  had  de- 
veloped in  Little  Jim  an  independence  that 
would  have  been  considered  precocious  in  the 
East.  Big  Jim  was  glad  that  the  mother's  ab- 
sence did  not  seem  to  affect  the  boy  much.  Little 
Jim  seemed  quite  philosophical  about  it.  Yet, 
deep  in  his  heart,  Little  Jim  missed  his  mother, 
more  than  his  father  realized.  The  house 
seemed  strangely  empty  and  quiet.  And  it  had 
seemed  queer  that  Big  Jim  should  cook  the 
supper,  and,  later,  wash  the  dishes. 

That  evening,  just  before  they  went  to  bed, 
Big  Jim  ransacked  the  bureau,  sorting  out  his 
own  things,  and  laying  aside  a  few  things  that 
his  wife  had  left:  a  faded  pink  ribbon,  an  old 
pair  of  high-heeled  slippers,  a  torn  and  un- 
mended  apron,  and  an  old  gingham  dress. 
Gathering  these  things  together,  Big  Jim  stuffed 
them  in  the  kitchen  stove.  Little  Jim  watched 
him  silently. 


8  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

But  when  his  father  came  from  the  stove  and 
sat  down,  Little  Jim  slipped  over  to  him.  "Dad, 
are  you  mad  at  ma  for  leavin'  us?"  he  queried. 

Big  Jim  shook  his  head.  "No,  Jimmy.  Just 
didn't  want  to  leave  her  things  around,  after  we 
had  gone.  Benson'll  be  movin'  in  sometime 
this  week.  I  sold  our  place  to  him." 

"The  stove  and  beds  and  everything?" 

"Everything." 

Little  Jim  wrinkled  his  nose  and  sniffed. 
"Them  things  you  put  in  the  stove  smell  just 
like  brandin'  a  critter,"  he  said,  gesturing 
toward  the  kitchen. 

Big  Jim  gazed  hard  at  his  young  son.  Then 
he  smiled  to  himself,  and  shook  his  head.  "Just 
like  brandin'  a  critter,"  he  repeated,  half  to  him- 
self. "Just  like  brandin'  a  critter." 


CHAPTER  II 

PANHANDLE 

WHILE  his  friends  and  neighbors  called  Jim 
Hastings  "Big  Jim,"  he  was  no  more  than  aver- 
age size — compact,  vigorous,  reared  in  the 
Wyoming  cattle  lands,  and  typical  of  the  coun- 
try. He  was  called  Big  Jim  simply  to  distin- 
guish him  from  Little  Jim,  who  was  as  well 
known  in  Laramie  as  his  father.  Little  Jim, 
when  but  five  years  of  age,  rode  his  own  pony, 
jogging  alongside  his  father  when  they  went  to 
town,  where  he  was  decidedly  popular  with  the 
townsfolk  because  of  his  sturdy  independence 
and  humorous  grin. 

Little  Jim  talked  horses  and  cattle  and  ranch- 
ing with  the  grown-ups  and  took  their  good- 
natured  joshing  philosophically.  He  seldom 
retorted  hastily,  but,  rather,  blinked  his  eyes 
and  wrinkled  his  forehead  as  he  digested  this  or 
that  pleasantry,  and  either  gave  it  the  indiffer- 
ent acknowledgment  of  "Shucks!  Think  you 
can  josh  me?'9  or,  if  the  occasion  and  the  remark 
seemed  to  call  for  more  serious  consideration,  he 
rose  to  it  manfully,  and  often  to  the  embarrass- 
ment of  the  initial  speaker. 


10  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Little  Jim  liked  to  go  to  town  with  his  father, 
yet  he  considered  town  really  a  sort  of  suburb 
to  his  real  world,  the  homestead,  which  he  had 
seen  change  from  a  prairie  level  of  unfenced 
space  to  a  small — and  to  him — complete  king- 
dom of  pasture  lot,  hayfield,  garden,  corrals, 
stable,  and  house.  Town  was  simply  a  place  to 
which  you  went  to  buy  things,  get  the  mail,  ex- 
change views  on  the  weather  and  grazing,  and 
occasionally  help  the  hands  load  a  shipment  of 
cattle.  Little  Jim  helped  by  sitting  on  the  top 
rail  of  the  pens  and  commenting  on  the  indi- 
vidual characteristics  of  the  cattle,  and,  some- 
times, of  the  men  loading  them.  In  such 
instances  he  found  opportunity  to  pay  off  old 
scores.  Incidentally  he  kept  the  men  in  good 
humor  by  his  lively  comment. 

Little  Jim  was  six  years  of  age  when  his 
mother  left  to  resume  her  former  occupation 
of  waitress  in  the  station  restaurant  of  Laramie, 
where  she  had  been  popular  because  of  her 
golden  hair,  her  blue  eyes,  and  her  ability  to 
"talk  back"  to  the  regular  customers  in  a  man- 
ner which  they  seemed  to  enjoy.  Big  Jim  mar- 
ried her  when  he  was  not  much  more  than  a  boy 
— twenty,  in  fact;  and  during  the  first  few  years 
they  were  happy  together.  But  homesteading 


PANHANDLE  11 

failed  to  supply  more  than  their  immediate 
needs. 

Occasional  trips  to  town  at  first  satisfied  the 
wife's  craving  for  the  attention  and  admiration 
that  most  men  paid  to  her  rather  superficial 
good  looks.  But  as  the  years  slipped  by,  with 
no  promise  of  easier  conditions,  she  became  dis- 
satisfied, shrewish,  and  ashamed  of  her  lack  of 
pretty  things  to  wear.  Little  Jim  was,  of 
course,  as  blind  to  all  this  as  he  was  to  his  need 
for  anything  other  than  his  overalls,  shoes,  and 
jumper.  He  thought  his  mother  was  pretty  and 
he  often  told  her  so. 

Meanwhile,  Big  Jim  tried  to  blind  himself  to 
his  wife's  growing  dissatisfaction.  He  was  too 
much  of  a  man  to  argue  her  own  short-comings 
as  against  his  inability  to  do  more  for  her  than 
he  was  doing.  But  when  she  did  leave,  with 
simply  a  brief  note  saying  that  she  was  tired  of  it 
all,  and  would  take  care  of  herself,  what  hit  Big 
Jim  the  hardest  was  the  fact  that  she  could  give 
up  Little  Jim  without  so  much  as  a  word  about 
him.  Every  one  liked  Little  Jim,  and  the 
mother's  going  proved  something  that  Big  Jim 
had  tried  to  ignore  for  several  years — that  hi!s 
wife  cared  actually  nothing  for  the  boy.  When 
Big  Jim  finally  realized  this,  his  indecision 


12  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

evaporated.  He  would  sell  out  and  try  his 
fortunes  in  Arizona,  where  his  sister  Jane  lived, 
the  sister  who  had  never  seen  Little  Jim,  but 
who  had  often  written  to  Big  Jim,  inviting  him 
to  come  and  bring  his  family  for  a  visit. 

Big  Jim  had  enough  money  from  the  sale  of 
his  effects  to  make  the  journey  by  train,  even 
after  he  had  deposited  half  of  the  proceeds  at 
the  local  bank,  in  his  wife's  name.  But  being 
a  true  son  of  the  open,  he  wanted  to  see  the 
country;  so  he  decided  to  travel  horseback,  with 
a  pack-animal.  Little  Jim,  used  to  the  saddle, 
would  find  the  journey  a  real  adventure.  They 
would  take  it  easy.  There  was  no  reason  for  haste. 

It  had  seemed  the  simplest  thing  to  do,  to  sell 
out,  leave  that  part  of  the  country,  and  forget 
what  had  happened.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  staying  where  they  were.  Big  Jim 
had  lost  his  interest  in  the  ranch.  Moreover, 
there  had  been  some  talk  of  another  man,  in 
Laramie,  a  man  who  had  "kept  company" 
with  Jenny  Simpson,  before  she  became  Mrs. 
Jim  Hastings.  Mrs.  Hastings  was  still  young 
and  quite  good-looking. 

It  had  seemed  a  simple  thing  to  do — to 
leave  and  begin  life  over  again  in  another  land. 
But  Big  Jim  had  forgotten  Smiler.  Smiler  was 


PANHANDLE  13 

a  dog  of  vague  ancestry,  a  rough-coated,  yellow 
dog  that  belonged  solely  to  Little  Jim.  Smiler 
stuck  so  closely  to  Little  Jim  that  their  shadows 
were  veritably  one.  Smiler  was  a  sort  of 
chuckle-headed,  good-natured  animal,  meek,  so 
long  as  Little  Jim's  prerogatives  were  not 
infringed  upon,  but  a  cyclone  of  yellow  wrath  if 
Little  Jim  were  approached  by  any  one  in  other 
than  a  friendly  spirit.  Even  when  Big  Jim 
"roughed"  his  small  son,  in  fun,  Smiler  grew 
nervous  and  bristled,  and  once,  when  the  mother 
had  smacked  Little  Jim  for  some  offense  or 
other,  Smiler  had  taken  sides  to  the  extent  of 
jumping  between  the  mother  and  the  boy, 
ready  to  do  instant  battle  if  his  young  partner 
were  struck  again. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  take  Smiler  with  us," 
said  Big  Jim,  as  Little  Jim  scurried  about  next 
morning,  getting  ready  for  the  great  adventure. 

Little  Jim  stopped  as  though  he  had  run 
against  a  rope.  He  had  not  even  dreamed  but 
that  Smiler  would  go  with  them. 

Now,  Little  Jim  had  not  forgathered  with 
punchers  and  townsfolk  for  nothing.  He  was 
naturally  shrewd,  and  he  did  not  offer  or  contro- 
vert opinions  hastily.  He  stood  holding  a  bit 
of  old  tie-rope  in  his  hand,  pondering  this  last  un- 


14  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

thinkable  development  of  the  situation.  Smiler 
was  to  be  left  behind.  Jimmy  wanted  to  ask 
why  Smiler  could  not  go.  He  wanted  to  assure 
his  father  that  Smiler  would  be  a  help  rather 
than  a  hindrance  to  the  expedition. 

Little  Jim  knew  that  if  he  wept,  his  father 
might  pay  some  attention  to  that  sort  of  plea. 
But  Little  Jim  did  not  intend  to  weep,  nor  ask 
questions,  nor  argue.  Smiler  stood  expectantly 
watching  the  preparations.  He  knew  that 
something  important  was  about  to  happen,  and, 
with  the  loyalty  of  his  kind,  he  was  ready  to 
follow,  no  matter  where.  Smiler  had  sniffed  the 
floor  of  the  empty  house,  the  empty  stables,  the 
corral.  His  folks  were  going  somewhere.  Well, 
he  was  ready. 

Little  Jim,  who  had  been  gazing  wistfully  at 
Smiler,  suddenly  strode  to  his  pack  and  sat  down. 
He  bit  his  lips.  Tears  welled  to  his  eyes  and 
drifted  slowly  down  his  cheeks.  He  had  not 
intended  to  let  himself  weep — but  there  was 
Smiler,  wagging  his  thick  tail,  waiting  to  go. 

"I  g-g-guess  you  better  go  ahead  and  hit  the 
trail,  dad." 

"Why,  that's  what  we're  going  to  do.  What 
Big  Jim  glanced  at  his  boy.  " What's 
the  matter?" 


PANHANDLE  15 

Little  Jim  did  not  answer,  but  his  attitude 
spoke  for  itself.  He  had  decided  to  stay  with 
Smiler. 

Big  Jim  frowned.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
the  boy  had  ever  openly  rebelled.  And  because 
it  was  the  first  time,  Big  Jim  realized  its  signifi- 
cance. Yet,  such  loyalty,  even  to  a  dog,  was 
worth  while. 

Big  Jim  put  his  hand  on  Little  Jim's  shoulder. 
"Smiler'll  get  sore  feet  on  the  trails,  Jimmy. 
And  there  won't  be  a  whole  lot  to  eat." 

Little  Jim  blinked  up  at  his  father.  "Well, 
he  can  have  half  of  my  grub,  and  I  reckon  I 
can  pack  him  on  the  saddle  with  me  if  his  feet 
get  tender." 

"All  right.  But  don't  blame  me  if  Smiler 
peters  out  on  the  trip." 

"Smiler's  tough,  he  is!"  stated  Little  Jim. 
"He's  so  tough  he  bites  barb  wire.  Anyhow, 
you  said  we  was  goin'  to  take  it  easy.  And 
he  can  catch  rabbits,  I  guess." 

"Perhaps  he  won't  want  to  come  along," 
suggested  Big  Jim  as  he  pulled  up  a  cincha  and 
slipped  the  end  through  the  ring. 

Little  Jim  beckoned  to  Smiler  who  had  stood 
solemnly  listening  to  the  controversy  about  him- 


16  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

self  as  though  he  understood.  Smiler  trotted 
over  to  Jimmy. 

"You  want  to  take  it  plumb  easy  on  this  trip/' 
said  Little  Jim,  "and  not  go  to  chasin'  around 
and  runnin'  yourself  ragged  gettin'  nowhere. 
If  you  get  sore  feet,  we'll  just  have  to  beef  you 
and  hang  your  hide  on  the  fence." 

Smiler  grinned  and  wagged  his  tail.  He 
pushed  up  and  suddenly  licked  Little  Jim's  face. 
Little  Jim  promptly  cuffed  him.  Smiler  came 
back  for  more. 

Big  Jim  turned  and  watched  the  boy  and  the 
dog  in  their  rough-and-tumble  about  the  yard. 
He  blinked  and  turned  back  to  the  horses. 
"Come  on,  Jimmy.  We're  all  set." 

"Got  to  throw  my  pack  on  ole  Lazy,  dad. 
Gimme  a  hand,  will  you?" 

Little  Jim  never  would  admit  that  he  could 
not  do  anything  there  was  to  be  done.  When 
he  was  stuck  he  simply  asked  his  father  to  help 
him. 

Big  Jim  slung  up  the  small  pack  and  drew 
down  the  hitch.  Little  Jim  ducked  under  Lazy 
and  took  the  rope  on  the  other  side,  passing  the 
end  to  his  father. 

"Reckon  that  pack'll  ride  all  right,"  said  the 


PANHANDLE  17 

boy,  surveying  the  outfit.     "Got  the  morrals 
and  everything,  dad?" 

"All  set,  Jimmy." 

"Then  let's  go.  I  got  my  ole  twenty-two 
loaded.  If  we  run  on  to  one  of  them  stingin' 
lizards,  he's  sure  a  goner.  Does  dogs  eat 
lizards?" 

Big  Jim  swung  to  the  saddle  and  hazed  the 
old  pack-horse  ahead.  "Don't  know,  Jimmy. 
Sometimes  the  Indians  eat  them." 

"Eat  stingin'  lizards?" 

"Yep." 

"Well,  I  guess  Smiler  can,  then.  Come  on, 
ole-timer!" 

Suddenly  Little  Jim  thought  of  his  mother. 
It  seemed  that  she  ought  to  be  with  them. 
Little  Jim  had  wept  when  Smiler  was  in  question. 
Now  he  gazed  with  clear-eyed  faith  at  his  father. 

"It  ain't  our  fault  ma  ain't  goin'  with  us,  is 
it?"  he  queried  timidly. 

Big  Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Say,  dad,  we're  headed  west.  Thought  you 
said  we  was  goin'  to  Arizona?" 

"We'll  turn  south,  after  a  while." 

Little  Jim  asked  no  more  questions.  His 
father  knew  everything — why  they  were  going 
and  where.  Little  Jim  glanced  back  to  where 


18  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Smiler  padded  along,  his  tongue  out  and  his 
eyes  already  rimmed  with  dust,  for  he  would 
insist  upon  traveling  tight  to  Lazy's  heels. 

Little  Jim  leaned  back.  "Stick  it  out,  ole- 
timer!  But  don't  you  go  to  cuttin'  dad's 
trail  till  he  gets  kind  of  used  to  seein'  you 
around.  Sabe?" 

Smiler  grinned  through  a  dust-begrimed  coun- 
tenance. He  wagged  his  tail. 

Little  Jim  plunked  his  horse  in  the  ribs  and 
drew  up  beside  his  father.  Little  Jim  felt  big 
and  important  riding  beside  his  dad.  There  had 
been  some  kind  of  trouble  at  home — >and  they 
were  leaving  it  behind.  It  would  be  a  long  trail, 
and  his  father  sure  would  need  help. 

Little  Jim  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  wanted 
to  express  his  unwavering  loyalty  to  his  father. 
He  wanted  to  talk  of  his  willingness  to  go  any- 
where and  share  any  kind  of  luck.  But  his 
resolve  to  speak  evaporated  in  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction. This  was  a  real  holiday,  an  adven- 
ture. "Smiler's  makin'  it  fine,  dad." 

But  Big  Jim  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  was 
gazing  ahead,  where  in  the  distance  loomed  an 
approaching  figure  on  horseback.  Little  Jim 
knew  who  it  was,  and  was  about  to  say  so  when 
his  father  checked  him  with  a  gesture.  Little 


PANHANDLE  19 

Jim  saw  his  father  shift  his  belt  round  so  that 
his  gun  hung  handy.  He  said  nothing  and 
showed  by  no  other  sign  that  he  had  recognized 
the  approaching  rider,  who  came  on  swiftly,  his 
high-headed  pinto  fighting  the  bit. 

Within  twenty  yards  of  them,  the  rider  reined 
his  hor^e  to  a  walk.  Little  Jim  saw  the  two 
men  eye  each  other  closely.  The  man  on  the 
pinto  rode  past.  Little  Jim  turned  to  his 
father. 

"I  guess  Panhandle  is  goin'  to  town,"  said  the 
boy,  not  knowing  just  what  to  say,  yet  feeling 
that  the  occasion  called  for  some  remark. 

"Panhandle"  Sears  and  his  father  knew  each 
other.  They  had  passed  on  the  road,  neither 
speaking  to  the  other.  And  Little  Jim  was  not 
blind  to  the  significant  movement  of  shifting 
a  belt  that  a  gun  might  hang  ready  to  hand. 

Yet  he  soon  forgot  the  incident  in  visioning 
the  future.  Arizona,  Aunt  Jane,  and  stingin' 
lizards ! 

Big  Jim  rode  with  head  bowed.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  man  who  had  just  passed  them. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  boy,  Big  Jim  and  that 
man  would  have  had  it  out,  there  on  the 
road.  And  Jenny  Hastings  would  have  been 
the  cause  of  their  quarrel.  "Panhandle"  Sears 


20  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

had  "kept  company"  with  Jenny  before  she 
became  Big  Jim's  wife.  Now  that  she  had  left 
him — 

Big  Jim  turned  and  gazed  back  along  the 
road.  A  far-away  cloud  of  dust  rolled  toward 
the  distant  town  of  Laramie. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  MINUTE   TOO  LATE 

THE  Overland,  westbound,  was  late.  Never- 
theless, it  had  to  stop  at  Antelope,  but  it  did 
so  grudgingly  and  left  with  a  snort  of  disdain 
for  the  cow-town  of  the  high  mesa.  Curious- 
eyed  tourists  had  a  brief  glimpse  of  a  loading- 
chute,  cattle-pens,  a  puncher  or  two,  and  an 
Indian  freighter's  wagon  just  pulling  in  from 
the  spaces,  and  accompanied  by  a  plodding 
cavalcade  of  outriders  on  paint  ponies. 

Incidentally  the  westbound  left  one  of  those 
momentarily  interested  Easterners  on  the  sta- 
tion platform,  without  baggage,  sense  of  di- 
rection, or  companion.  He  had  stepped  off 
the  train  to  send  a  telegram  to  a  friend  in  Cal- 
ifornia. He  discovered  that  he  had  left  his 
address  book  in  his  grip.  Meanwhile  the  train 
had  moved  forward  some  sixty  yards,  to  take 
water.  Returning  for  his  address  book,  he 
boarded  the  wrong  Pullman,  realized  his  mis- 
take, and  hastened  on  through  to  his  car.  Out 
to  the  station  again — delay  in  getting  the  at- 
tention of  the  telegraph  operator,  the  wire 


22  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

finally  written — -and  the  Easterner  heard  the 
rumble  of  the  train  as  it  pulled  out. 

Even  then  he  would  have  made  it  had  it  not 
been  for  a  portly  individual  in  shirt-sleeves  who 
inadvertently  blocked  the  doorway  of  the  tele- 
graph office.  Bartley  bumped  into  this  portly 
person,  tried  to  squeeze  past,  did  so,  and  prompt- 
ly caromed  off  the  station  agent  whom  he  met 
head  on,  halfway  across  the  platform.  Gazing 
at  the  departing  train,  Bartley  reached  in  his 
pocket  for  a  cigar  which  he  lighted  casually. 

The  portly  individual  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  f  'Nother  one,  this  afternoon." 

"Thanks.    But  my  baggage  is  on  that  one." 

"You're  lucky  it  ain't  two  sections  behind, 
this  time  of  year.  Travel  is  heavy." 

Bartley's  quick  glance  took  in  the  big  man 
from  his  high-heeled  boots  to  his  black  Stetson. 
A  cattleman,  evidently  well  to  do,  and  quite 
evidently  not  flustered  by  the  mishaps  of  other 
folks. 

"There's  a  right  comfortable  little  hotel,  just 
over  there,"  stated  the  cattleman.  "Wishful 
runs  her.  It  ain't  a  bad  place  to  wait  for  your 
train." 

Bartley  smiled  in  spite  of  his  irritation. 

The  cattleman's  eyes  twinkled.     "You'll  be 


A  MINUTE  TOO  LATE  23 

sending  a  wire  to  have  'em  take  care  of  your 
war  bag.  Well,  come  on  in  and  send  her.  You 
can  catch  Number  Eight  about  Winslow." 

The  cattleman  forged  ahead,  and  in  the  tele- 
graph office,  got  the  immediate  attention  of  the 
operator,  who  took  Bartley's  message. 

The  cattleman  paid  for  it.  "  'Tain't  the  first 
time  my  size  has  cost  me  money,"  he  said,  as 
Bartley  protested.  "Now,  let's  go  over  and 
get  another  cigar.  Then  we  can  mill  around 
and  see  Wishful.  You'll  like  Wishful.  He's 
different." 

They  strode  down  the  street  and  stopped  in 
at  a  saloon  where  the  cattleman  called  for  cigars. 
Bartley  noticed  that  the  proprietor  of  the  place 
addressed  the  big  cattleman  as  "Senator." 

"This  here  is  a  dry  climate,  and  a  cigar  burns 
up  right  quick,  if  you  don't  moisten  it  a  little," 
said  the  cattleman.  "I  'most  always  moisten 


mine." 


Bartley  grinned.  "I  think  the  occasion  calls 
for  it,  Senator." 

"Oh,  shucks!  Just  call  me  Steve — -Steve 
Brown.  And  just  give  us  a  little  Green  River, 
Tom." 

A  few  minutes  later  Bartley  and  his  stout 
companion  were  seated  on  the  veranda  of  the 


24  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

hotel,  gazing  out  across  the  mesas.  They  were 
both  comfortable,  and  quite  content  to  watch 
the  folk  go  past,  out  there  in  the  heat.  Bartley 
wondered  if  the  title  "Senator"  were  a  nickname, 
or  if  the  portly  gentleman  placidly  smoking  his 
cigar  and  gazing  into  space  was  really  a  poli- 
tician. 

A  dusty  cow-puncher  drifted  past  the  hotel, 
waving  his  hand  to  the  Senator,  who  replied 
genially.  A  little  later  a  Navajo  buck  rode  up 
on  a  quick-stepping  pony.  He  grunted  a  salu- 
tation and  said  something  in  his  native  tongue. 
The  Senator  replied  in  kind.  Bartley  was  in- 
terested. Presently  the  Navajo  dug  his  heels 
into  his  pony's  ribs,  and  clattered  up  the  road. 

The  Senator  turned  to  Bartley.  "Politics  and 
cattle,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Having  learned  the  Senator's  vocation,  Bart- 
ley gave  his  own  as  briefly.  The  Senator  nodded. 

"It  is  as  obvious  as  all  that,  then?"  queried 
Bartley. 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,"  stated  the  Senator 
carefully.  "But  after  you  bumped  into  me, 
and  then  stepped  into  the  agent,  and  then 
turned  around  and  took  in  my  scenery,  no- 
ticin5  the  set  of  my  legs,  I  says  to  myself,  'paint- 
er-man or  writer.'  It  was  kind  of  in  your  eye. 


A  MINUTE  TOO  LATE  25 

I  figured  you  wa'n't  no  painter-man  when  you 
looked  at  the  oil  pain  tin'  over  the  bar. 

"A  painter-man  would  'a'  looked  sad  or  said 
somethin',  for  that  there  paintin'  is  the  most 
gosh-awful  picture  of  what  a  puncher  might 
look  like  after  a  cyclone  had  hit  him.  I  took 
a  painter-man  in  there  once,  to  get  a  drink. 
He  took  one  look  at  that  picture,  and  then  he 
says,  kind  of  sorrowful:  'Is  this  the  only  place 
in  town  where  they  serve  liquor?'  I  told  him  it 
was.  'Let's  go  over  and  tackle  the  pump,'  he 
says.  But  we  had  our  drink.  I  told  him  just 
to  turn  his  back  on  that  picture  when  he  took 
his." 

"I  might  be  anything  but  a  writer,"  said 
Bartley. 

'That's  correct.    But  you  ain't." 

"You  hit  the  nail  on  the  head.  However, 
I  can't  just  follow  your  line  of  reasoning  it  out." 

"Easy.  Elimination.  Now  a  tourist,  regular, 
stares  at  folks  and  things.  But  a  painter  or 
writer  he  takes  things  in  without  starin'.  There's 
some  difference.  I  knew  you  were  a  man  who 
did  things.  It's  in  your  eye." 

"Well,"  laughed  Bartley,  "I  took  you  for 
a  cattleman  the  minute  I  saw  you." 

"Which  was  a  minute  too  late,  eh?" 


26  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Since  I've  been 
sitting  here  looking  at  the  mesa  and  those 
wonderful  buttes  over  there,  and  watching 
the  natives  come  and  go,  I  have  begun  to  feel 
that  I  don't  care  so  much  about  that  train, 
after  all.  I  like  this  sort  of  thing.  You  see,  I 
planned  to  visit  California,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing definite  about  the  plan.  I  chose  California 
because  I  had  heard  so  much  about  it.  It 
doesn't  matter  much  where  I  go.  By  the  way, 
my  name  is  Bartley." 

"I'm  Steve  Brown — cattle  and  politics.  I 
tell  you,  Mr.  Bartley—" 

"Suppose  you  say  just  Bartley?" 

The  Senator  chuckled.  "Suppose  I  said 
'Green  River'?" 

"I  haven't  an  objection  in  the  world,"  laughed 
Bartley. 

"Wishful,  here,  don't  keep  liquor,"  explained 
the  Senator.  "And  he's  right  about  that. 
Folks  that  stay  at  this  hotel  want  to  sleep 
nights." 

The  Senator  heaved  himself  out  of  his  chair, 
stood  up,  and  stretched. 

"I  reckon  you'll  be  wan  tin'  to  see  all  you  can 
of  this  country.  My  ranch  lays  just  fifty  miles 
south  of  the  railroad,  and  not  a  fence  from  here 


A  MINUTE  TOO  LATE  27 

to  there.  Then,  there's  them  Indians,  up  north 
a  piece.  And  over  yonder  is  where  they  dig  up 
them  prehistoric  villages.  And  those  buttes 
over  there  used  to  be  volcanoes,  before  they 
laid  off  the  job.  To  the  west  is  the  petrified 
forest.  I  made  a  motion  once,  when  the  Legisla- 
ture was  in  session,  to  have  that  forest  set  aside 
as  a  buryin'-ground  for  politicians, — State  Sena- 
tors and  the  like, — but  they  voted  me  down. 
They  said  I  didn't  specify  dead  politicians. 

"South  of  my  place  is  the  Apache  reservation. 
There's  good  huntin'  in  that  country.  'Course, 
Arizona  ain't  no  Garden  of  Eden  to  some  folks. 
Two  kinds  of  folks  don't  love  this  State  a  little 
bit — homesteaders  and  tourists.  But  when  it 
comes  to  cattle  and  sheep  and  mines,  you  can't 
beat  her.  She  sure  is  the  Tiger  Lily  of  the  West. 
But  let's  step  over  and  see  Tom.  Excuse  me  a 
minute.  There's  a  constituent  who  has  some- 
thin'  on  his  chest.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  station.'* 

The  Senator  stepped  out  and  talked  with  his 
constituent.  Meanwhile,  Bartley  turned  to 
gaze  down  the  street.  A  string  of  empty  freight 
wagons,  followed  by  a  lazy  cloud  of  dust,  rolled 
slowly  toward  town.  Here  and  there  a  bit  of 
red  showed  in  the  dun  mass  of  riders  that  ac- 
companied the  wagons.  A  gay-colored  blanket 


28  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

flickered  in  the  sun.  The  mesas  radiated  keen 
dry  heat. 

Bartley  turned  and  crossed  over  to  the  sta- 
tion. He  blinked  the  effects  of  the  white  light 
from  his  eyes  as  he  entered  the  telegraph  office. 
The  operator,  in  shirt-sleeves,  and  smoking  a 
brown-paper  cigarette,  nodded  and  handed 
Bartley  a  service  message  stating  that  his 
effects  would  be  carried  to  Los  Angeles  and  held 
for  further  orders. 

"It's  sure  hot,"  said  the  operator.  "Did 
you  want  to  send  another  wire?" 

Bartley  shook  his  head.  "Who  is  that  stout 
man  I  bumped  into  trying  to  catch  my  train?" 

"That's  Senator  Steve  Brown — State  Sena- 
tor. Thought  you  knew  him." 

"No.    I  just  met  him  to-day." 

The  operator  slumped  down  in  his  chair. 

Bartley  strode  to  the  door  and  blinked  in  the 
Arizona  sunshine.  "By  George!"  he  mur- 
mured, "I  always  thought  they  wore  those 
big  Stetsons  for  show.  But  all  day  in  this  sun — • 
guess  I'll  have  to  have  one." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER" 

To  suddenly  stop  off  at  a  cow-town  station, 
without  baggage  or  definite  itinerary,  was  un- 
conventional, to  say  the  least.  Hartley  was 
amused  and  interested.  Hitherto  he  had  written 
more  or  less  conventional  stuff — acceptable 
stories  of  the  subway,  the  slums,  the  docks, 
and  the  streets  of  Eastern  cities.  But  now,  as 
he  strode  over  to  the  saloon,  he  forgot  that  he 
was  a  writer  of  stories.  A  boyish  longing  pos- 
sessed him  to  see  much  of  the  life  roundabout, 
even  to  the  farthest,  faint  range  of  hills — and 
beyond. 

He  felt  that  while  he  still  owed  something 
to  his  original  plan  of  visiting  California,  he 
could  do  worse  than  stay  right  where  he  was. 
He  had  thought  of  wiring  to  have  his  baggage 
sent  back.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that,  aside 
from  his  shaving-kit  and  a  few  essentials,  his 
baggage  comprised  but  little  that  he  could  use 
out  here  in  the  mesa  country.  And  he  felt  a 
certain  relief  in  not  having  trunks  to  look  after. 
Outing  flannels  and  evening  clothes  would 


SO  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

hardly  fit  into  the  present  scheme  of  things. 
The  local  store  would  furnish  him  all  that  he 
needed.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he  entered  the 
Blue  Front  Saloon  where  he  found  Senator 
Steve  and  his  foreman  seated  at  a  side  table 
discussing  the  merits  of  "Green  River." 

"Hello!"  called  the  Senator.  "Mr.  Bartley, 
meet  my  foreman,  Lon  Pelly." 

They  shook  hands. 

"Lon  says  the  source  of  Green  River  is  Joy 
in  the  Hills,"  asserted  the  Senator,  smiling. 

The  long,  lean  cow-puncher  grinned.  "Steve, 
here,  says  the  source  of  Green  River  is  trouble." 

"Now,  as  a  writin'  man,  what  would  you 
say?"  queried  the  Senator. 

Bartley  gazed  at  the  label  on  the  bottle  under 
discussion.  "Well,  as  a  writer,  I  might  say 
that  it  depends  how  far  you  travel  up  or  down 
Green  River.  But  as  a  mere  individual  en- 
joying the  blessings  of  companionship,  I  should 
say,  let's  experiment,  judiciously." 

"Fetch  a  couple  more  glasses,  Tom,"  called 
the  Senator. 

After  the  essential  formalties,  Bartley  pushed 
back  his  chair,  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  and 
lighted  a  cigar.  "I'm  rather  inclined  toward  that 
Joy  in  the  Hills  theory,  just  now,"  he  asserted. 


A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER  31 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Lon  Felly.  "Be- 
in'  a  little  inclined  don't  hurt  any.  But  if 
you  keep  on  reachin'  for  Joy,  your  foot  is  like 
to  slip.  Then  comes  Trouble." 

"Lon's  qualified  for  the  finals  once  or  twice," 
said  the  Senator.  "Now,  take  me,  for  a  horrible 
example.  I  been  navigatin'  Green  River,  off 
and  on,  for  quite  a  spell,  and  I  never  got  hung 
up  bad." 

"Speaking  of  rivers,  they're  rather  scarce 
in  this  country,  I  believe,"  said  Bartley. 

"Yes.  But  some  of  'em  are  noticeable  in 
the  rainy  season,"  stated  Senator  Steve.  "But 
you  ain't  seen  Arizona.  You've  only  been 
peekin'  through  your  fingers  at  her.  Wait  till 
you  get  on  a  cayuse  and  hit  the  trail  for  a  few 
hundred  miles — that's  the  only  way  to  see  the 
country.  Now,  take  *  Cheyenne.'  He  rides  this 
here  country  from  Utah  to  the  border,  and  he 
can  tell  you  somethin'  about  Arizona. 

"Cheyenne  is  a  kind  of  hobo  puncher  that 
rides  the  country  with  his  little  old  pack-horse, 
stoppin'  by  to  work  for  a  grubstake  when  he  has 
to,  but  ramblin'  most  of  the  time.  He  used  to 
be  a  top-hand  once.  Worked  for  me  a  spell. 
But  he  can't  stay  in  one  place  long.  Wish  you 
could  meet  him  sometime.  He  can  tell  you 


32  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

more  about  this  State  than  any  man  I  know. 
He's  what  you  might  call  a  character  for  a  story. 
He  stops  by  regular,  at  the  ranch,  mebby  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  then  takes  the  trail,  singin*  his 
little  old  song.  He's  kind  of  a  outdoor  poet. 
Makes  up  his  own  songs." 

"What  was  that  one  about  Arizona  that 
you  gave  'em  over  to  the  State  House  onct?" 
queried  Lon  Pelly. 

"Oh,  that  wa'n't  Cheyenne's  own  po'try. 
It  was  one  he  read  in  a  magazine  that  he  gave 
me.  Let's  see — 

Arizona !  The  tramp  of  cattle, 

The  biting  dust  and  the  raw,  red  brand: 

Shuffling  sheep  and  the  smoke  of  battle: 
The  upturned  face — and  the  empty  hand. 

Dawn  and  dusk,  and  the  wide  world  singing, 
Songs  that  thrilled  with  the  pulse  of  life, 

As  we  clattered  down  with  our  rein  chains  ringing 
To  woo  you — but  never  to  make  you  wife. 

The  Senator  smiled  a  trifle  apologetically. 
"There's  more  of  it.  But  po'try  ain't  just  in 
my  line.  Once  in  a  while  I  bust  loose  on  po'try 
— that  is,  my  kind  of  po'try.  And  I  want  to  say 
that  we  sure  clattered  down  from  the  Butte  and 
the  Blue  in  the  old  days,  with  our  rein  chains 


A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER  33 

jinglin',  thinkin' — some  of  us — that  Arizona  was 
ours  to  fare-ye-well. 

"But  we  old-timers  lived  to  find  out  that 
Arizona  was  too  young  to  get  married  yet;  so 
we  just  had  to  set  back  and  kind  of  admire  her, 
after  havin'  courted  her  an  amazin'  lot,  in  our 
young  days."  The  Senator  chuckled.  "Now, 
Lon,  here,  he'll  tell  you  that  there  ain't  no 
po'try  in  this  here  country.  And  I  never  knew 
they  was  till  I  got  time  to  set  back  and  think 
over  what  we  unbranded  yearlin's  used  to  do." 

"For  instance?"   queried  Bartley. 

Senator  Steve  waved  his  pudgy  hand  as 
though  shooing  a  flock  of  chickens  off  a  front 
lawn.  "If  I  was  to  tell  you  some  of  the  things 
that  happened,  you  would  think  I  was  a  heap 
sight  bigger  liar  than  I  am.  Seein'  some  of 
them  yarns  in  print,  folks  around  this  country 
would  say:  'Steve  Brown's  corralled  some  ten- 
derfoot and  loaded  him  to  the  muzzle  with  shin 
tangle  and  ancient  history!'  Things  that  would 
seem  amazin'  to  you  would  never  ruffle  the 
hair  of  the  mavericks  that  helped  make  this 
country." 

"This  country  ain't  all  settled  yet,"  said  the 
foreman,  rising.  "Reckon  I'll  step  along,  Steve." 

After    the   foreman    had    departed,    Bartley 


34  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

turned  to  the  Senator.     "Are  there  many  more 
like  him,  out  here?" 

"Who,  Lon?  Well,  a  few.  He's  been  fore- 
man for  me  quite  a  spell.  Lon  he  thinks.  And 
that's  more  than  I  ever  did  till  after  I  was  thirty. 
And  Lon  ain't  twenty-six,  yet." 

"I  think  I'll  step  over  to  the  drug-store  and 
get  a  few  things,"  said  Bartley. 

"So  you  figure  to  bed  down  at  the  hotel,  eh?" 

"Yes.  For  a  few  days,  at  least.  I  want  to 
get  over  the  idea  that  I  have  to  take  the 
next  train  West  before  I  make  any  further 
plans." 

,  The  Senator  accompanied  Bartley  to  the  drug- 
store. The  Easterner  bought  what  he  needed 
in  the  way  of  shaving-kit  and  brush  and  comb. 
The  Senator  excused  himself  and  crossed  the 
street  to  talk  to  a  friend.  The  afternoon  sun 
slanted  across  the  hot  roofs,  painting  black  shad- 
ows on  the  dusty  street.  Bartley  found  Wish- 
ful, the  proprietor,  and  told  him  that  he  would 
like  to  engage  a  room  with  a  bath. 

Wishful  smiled  never  a  smile  as  he  escorted 
Bartley  to  a  room. 

"I'll  fetch  your  bath  up,  right  soon,"  he  said 
solemnly. 

Presently  Wishful  appeared  with  a  galvanized 


A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER  35 

iron  washtub  and  a  kettle  of  boiling  water. 
Bartley  thanked  him. 

"You  can  leave  'em  out  in  the  hall  when  you're 
through,"  said  Wishful. 

Bartley  enjoyed  a  refreshing  bath  and  rub- 
down.  Later  he  set  the  kettle  and  tub  out  in 
the  dim  hallway.  Then  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
a  letter  to  his  friend  in  California,  explaining  his 
change  of  plan.  The  afternoon  sunlight  waned. 
Bartley  gazed  out  across  the  vast  mesas,  laven- 
der-hued  and  wonderful,  as  they  darkened  Co 
blue,  then  to  purple  that  was  shot  with  strange 
half-lights  from  the  descending  sun. 

Suddenly  a  giant  hand  seemed  to  drop  a 
canopy  over  the  vista,  and  it  was  night.  Bart- 
ley lighted  the  oil  lamp  and  sat  staring  out  into 
the  darkness.  From  below  came  the  rattle  of 
dishes.  Presently  Bartley  heard  heavy,  delib- 
erate footsteps  ascending  the  stairway.  Then  a 
clanging  crash  and  a  thud,  right  outside  his  door. 
He  flung  the  door  open.  Senator  Steve  was 
rising  from  the  flattened  semblance  of  a  washtub 
and  feeling  of  himself  tenderly.  The  Senator 
blinked,  surveyed  the  wrecked  tub  and  the  kettle 
silently,  and  then  without  comment  he  stepped 
back  and  kicked  the  kettle.  It  soared  and 
dropped  clanging  into  the  hall  below. 


36  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Wishful  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"Did  you  ring,  Senator?" 

"Yes,  I  did!     And  I'm  goin'  to  ring  again." 

"Hold  on!"  said  Wishful,  "I'll  come  up  and 
get  the  tub.  I  got  the  kettle." 

The  Senator  puffed  into  Bartley's  room  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  He  wiped  his  bald 
head,  smiling  cherubically.  "Did  you  hear 
him,  askin'  me,  a  member  of  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Progress,  if  I  rang  for 
him!  That's  about  all  the  respect  I  command 
in  this  community.  I  sure  want  to  apolo- 
gize for  not  stoppin'  to  knock,"  added  the 
Senator. 

Bartley  grinned.  "It  was  hardly  necessary. 
I  heard  you." 

"I  just  came  up  to  see  if  you  would  take 
dinner  with  me  and  my  missus.  We're  goin'  to 
eat  right  soon.  You  see,  my  missus  never  met 
up  with  a  real,  live  author." 

"Thanks,  Senator.  I'll  be  glad  to  meet  your 
family.  But  suppose  you  forget  that  author 
stuff  and  just  take  me  as  a  tenderfoot  out  to  see 
the  sights.  I'll  like  it  better." 

"Why,  sure!  And  while  the  House  is  in 
session,  I  might  rise  to  remark  that  I  can't  help 
bein'  called  'Senator,'  because  I'm  guilty.  But, 


A  LITTLE  GREEN  RIVER  37 

honest,  I  always  feel  kinder  toward  my  fellow- 
bein's  who  call  me  just  plain  'Steve.' 3 

"All  right.     I'll  take  your  word  for  it." 

"Don't  you  take  my  word  for  anything.  How 
do  you  know  but  I  might  be  tryin'  to  sell  you  a 
gold  mine?" 

"I  think  the  risk  would  be  about  even,"  said 
Bartley. 

The  Senator  chuckled.  "I  just  heard  Wishful 
lopin'  down  the  hall  with  his  bathin'  outfit,  so  I 
guess  the  right  of  way  is  clear  again.  And  there 
goes  the  triangle — sounds  like  the  old  ranch, 
that  triangle.  You  see,  Wishful  used  to  be 
a  cow-hand,  and  lots  of  cow-hands  stop  at  this 
hotel  when  they're  in  town.  That  triangle 
sounds  like  home  to  'em.  I'm  stoppin'  here  my- 
self. But  I  got  a  real  bathroom  out  to  the  ranch. 
Let's  go  down  and  look  at  some  beef  on  the 
plate." 


CHAPTER  V 

"TOP  HAND  ONCE" 

BARTLEY  happened  to  be  alone  on  the  veranda 
of  the  Antelope  House  that  evening.  Senator 
Brown  and  his  "missus"  had  departed  for  their 
ranch.  Mrs.  Senator  Brown  had  been  a  bit 
diffident  when  first  meeting  Bartley,  but  he  soon 
put  her  at  her  ease  with  some  amusing  stories  of 
Eastern  experiences.  The  dinner  concluded 
with  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Brown  that  antici- 
pated Bartley  visiting  the  ranch  and  staying  as 
long  as  he  wished.  The  day  following  the 
Senator's  departure  Bartley  received  a  telegram 
from  his  friend  in  California,  wishing  him  good 
luck  and  a  pleasant  journey  in  the  Arizona 
country.  The  friend  would  see  to  Bartley's 
baggage,  as  Bartley  had  forwarded  the  claim 
checks  in  his  letter. 

The  town  was  quiet  and  the  stars  were  serene- 
ly brilliant.  The  dusty,  rutted  road  past  the 
hotel,  dim  gray  in  the  starlight,  muffled  the 
tread  of  an  occasional  Navajo  pony  passing  in 
the  faint  glow  of  light  from  the  doorway.  Bart- 
ley was  content  with  things  as  he  found  them, 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  39 

just  then.  But  he  knew  that  he  would  eventu- 
ally go  away  from  there — from  the  untidy  town, 
the  railroad,  the  string  of  box-cars  on  the  siding, 
and  seek  the  new,  the  unexpected,  an  experience 
to  be  had  only  by  kicking  loose  from  convention 
and  stepping  out  for  himself.  He  thought  of 
writing  a  Western  story.  He  realized  that  all  he 
knew  of  the  West  was  from  hearsay,  and  a  brief 
contact  with  actual  Westerners.  He  would  do 
better  to  go  out  in  the  fenceless  land  and  live  a 
story,  and  then  write  it.  And  better  still,  he  would 
let  chance  decide  where  and  when  he  would  go. 
His  first  intimation  that  chance  was  in  his 
vicinity  was  the  distant,  faint  cadence  of  a  song 
that  floated  over  the  night-black  mesa  from  the 
north.  Presently  he  heard  the  soft,  muffled 
tread  of  horses  and  a  distinct  word  or  two  of  the 
song.  He  leaned  forward,  interested,  amused, 
alert.  The  voice  was  a  big  voice,  mellowed  by 
distance.  There  was  a  take-it-or-leave-it  swing 
to  the  melody  that  suggested  the  singer's  abso- 
lute oblivion  to  anything  but  the  joy  of  singing. 
Again  the  plod,  plod  of  the  horses,  and  then: 

I  was  top-hand  once  for  the  T-Bar-T, 

In  the  days  of  long  ago, 
But  I  took  to  seein*  the  scenery 

Where  the  barbed-wire  fence  don't  grow. 


40  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

I  was  top-hand  once — btit  the  trail  for  mine, 

And  plenty  of  room  to  roam; 
So  now  Fm  ridin*  the  old  chuck  line, 

And  any  old  place  is  home  .  .  .  for  me  .  .  . 

And  any  old  place  is  home. 

Bartley  grinned.  Whoever  he  was,  drifting 
in  from  the  northern  spaces,  he  had  evidently 
lost  the  pack-horse  that  bore  his  troubles.  Sud- 
denly, out  of  the  wall  of  dusk  that  edged  the  strip 
of  road  loomed  a  horse's  head,  and  then  another. 
The  lead  horse  bore  a  pack.  The  second  horse 
was  ridden  by  an  individual  who  leaned  slightly 
forward,  his  hands  clasped  comfortably  over  the 
saddle  horn.  The  horses  stopped  in  the  light  of 
the  doorway. 

"Well,  I  reckon  we're  here,"  said  a  voice. 
"But  hotels  and  us  ain't  in  the  same  class.  I 
stop  at  the  Antelope  House,  take  a  look  at  her, 
and  then  spread  my  roll  in  the  brush,  same  as 
always.  Nobody  to  home?  They  don't  know 
what  they're  missin'." 

Bartley  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  cigar. 
The  pack-horse  jerked  its  head  up. 

"Hello,  stranger!  Now  I  didn't  see  you 
settin'  there." 

"Good-evening!  But  why  'stranger'  when 
you  say  you  can't  see  me?" 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  41 

"Why?  'Cause  everybody  knows  me,  and 
you  didn't  whoop  when  I  rode  up.  Me,  I'm 
Cheyenne,  from  no  place,  and  likewise  that's 
where  I'm  goin'.  This  here  town  of  Antelope 
got  in  the  way — -towns  is  always  gittin'  in  my 
way — but  nobody  can  help  that.  Is  Wishful 
bedded  down  for  the  night  or  is  he  over  to  the 
Blue  Front  shootin'  craps?" 

"I  couldn't  say.  I  seem  to  be  the  only  one 
around  here,  just  now." 

"That  sure  excuses  me  and  the  hosses.  Wish- 
ful is  down  to  the  Blue  Front,  all  right.  It's  the 
only  exercise  he  gets,  regular."  Cheyenne 
pushed  back  the  brim  of  his  faded  black  Stetson 
and  sighed  heavily.  Bartley  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  face  as  care-free  as  that  of  a  happy  child — - 
the  twinkle  of  humorous  eyes  and  a  flash  of  white 
teeth  as  the  other  grinned.  "Reckon  you  never 
heard  tell  of  me,"  said  the  rider,  hooking  his  leg 
over  the  horn. 

I  just  arrived  yesterday.  I  have  not  heard  of 
you — but  I  heard  you  down  the  road,  singing. 
I  like  that  song." 

"One  of  my  own.  Yes,  I  come  into  town  sing- 
in*  and  I  go  out  singin'.  'Course,  we  eat,  when 
it's  handy.  Singin'  sure  keeps  a  fellow's  appe- 
tite from  goin'  to  sleep.  Guess  I'll  turn  the 


42  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

bosses  into  Wishful's  corral  and  go  find  him. 
Reckon  you  had  your  dinner." 

"Several  hours  ago." 

"Well,  I  had  mine  this  mornin'.  The  dinner 
I  had  this  mornin'  was  the  one  I  ought  to  had 
day  before  yesterday.  But  I  aim  to  catch  up — 
and  mebby  get  ahead  a  couple  of  eats,  some 
day.  But  the  hosses  get  theirs,  regular.  Come 
on,  Filaree,  we'll  go  prospect  the  sleepin'- 
quarters." 

Bartley  sat  back  and  smiled  to  himself  as 
Cheyenne  departed  for  the  corral.  This  way- 
farer, breezing  in  from  the  spaces,  suggested  pos- 
sibilities as  a  character  for  a  story  No  doubt 
the  song  was  more  or  less  autobiographical.  "A 
top-hand  once,  but  the  trail  for  mine,"  seemed 
to  explain  the  singer's  somewhat  erratic  dinner 
schedule.  Bartley  thought  that  he  would  like 
to  see  more  of  this  strange  itinerant,  who  sang 
both  coming  into  and  going  out  of  town. 

Presently  Cheyenne  was  back,  singing  some- 
thing about  a  Joshua  tree  as  he  came. 

He  stopped  at  the  veranda  rail.  His  smile 
was  affable.  "Guess  I'll  go  over  and  hunt  up 
Wishful.  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  excuse  me  for 
not  refusin'  to  accompany  you  to  the  Blue  Front 
to  get  a  drink." 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  43 

Bartley  was  puzzled.  "Would  you  mind  say- 
ing that  again?" 

"Sure  I  don't  mind.  I  thought,  mebby,  you 
bein'  a  stranger,  settin'  there  alone  and  lookin'  at 
the  dark,  that  you  was  kind  of  lonesome.  I  said 
I  reckoned  you'd  have  to  excuse  me  for  not  re- 
fusin'  to  go  over  to  the  Blue  Front  and  take  a 
drink." 

"I  think  I  get  you.  I'll  buy.  I'll  try  any- 
thing, once." 

Cheyenne  grinned.  "I  kind  of  hate  to  drink 
alone,  'specially  when  I'm  broke." 

Bartley  grinned  in  turn.  "So  do  I.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  all  right  to  leave.  The  door  is  wide 
open  and  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  one  in 
charge. 

"She  sure  is  an  orphan,  to-night.  But,  honest, 
Mr.—" 

"Bartley." 

"Mr.  Bartley,  nobody'd  ever  think  of  stealin' 
anything  from  Wishful.  Everybody  likes  Wish- 
ful 'round  here.  And  strangers  wouldn't  last 
long  that  tried  to  lift  anything  from  his  tepee. 
That  is,  not  any  longer  than  it  would  take  Wish- 
ful to  pull  a  gun — -and  that  ain't  long." 

"If  he  caught  them." 

"Caught  'em?     Say,  stranger,  how  far  do  you 


44  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

think  a  man  could  travel  out  of  here,  before 
somebody 'd  get  him?  Anyhow,  Wishful  ain't 
got  no  thin'  in  his  place  worth  stealin'." 

"Wishful  doesn't  look  very  warlike,"  said 
Bartley. 

"Nope.  That's  right.  He  looks  kind  of  like 
he'd  been  hit  on  the  roof  and  hadn't  come  to, 
yet.  But  did  you  ever  see  him  shoot  craps?" 

"No." 

"Then  you've  got  somethin'  comin',  besides 
buyin'  me  a  drink." 

Bartley  laughed  as  he  stepped  down  to  the 
road.  Bartley,  a  fair-sized  man,  was  surprised 
to  realize  that  the  other  was  all  of  a  head  taller 
than  himself.  Cheyenne  had  not  looked  it  in 
the  saddle. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  Senator  Brown?" 
queried  Bartley  as  he  strode  along  beside  the 
stiff -gaited  outlander. 

Cheyenne  stopped  and  pushed  back  his  hat. 
"Senator  Steve  Brown?  Say,  pardner,  me  and 
Steve  put  this  here  country  on  the  map.  If 
kings  was  in  style,  Steve  would  be  wearin'  a 
crown.  Why,  last  election  I  wore  out  a  pair  of 
jeans  lopin'  around  this  here  country  campaign- 
in'  for  Steve.  See  this  hat?  Steve  give  me  this 
hat — a  genuwine  J.  B.,  the  best  they  make.  In- 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  45 

side  he  had  printed  on  the  band,  in  gold,  'From 
Steve  to  Cheyenne,  hoping  it  will  always  fit.' 
Do  I  know  Steve  Brown?  Next  time  you  see 
him  just  ask  him  about  Cheyenne  Hastings." 

"I  met  the  Senator,  yesterday.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  he  did  mention  your  name — -Chey- 
enne— and  said  you  knew  the  country." 

"Was  you  lookin*  for  a  guide,  mebby?" 

"Well,  not  exactly.  But  I  hope  to  see  some- 
thing of  Arizona." 

"Uh-huh.  Well,  I  travel  alone,  mostly.  But 
right  now  I'm  flat  broke.  If  you  was  headin' 
south—" 

"I  expect  to  visit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  some 
day.  Their  ranch  is  south  of  here,  I  believe." 

"Yep.  Plumb  south,  on  the  Concho  road. 
I'm  ridin'  down  that  way." 

"Well,  we  will  talk  about  it  later,"  said  Bart- 
ley  as  they  entered  the  saloon. 

With  a  few  exceptions,  the  men  in  the  place 
were  grouped  round  a  long  table,  in  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  at  the  head  of  which  stood  Wishful 
evidently  about  to  make  a  throw  with  the  dice. 
No  one  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  the  arrival 
of  Bartley  and  his  companion,  with  the  exception 
of  the  proprietor,  who  nodded  to  Bartley  and 
spoke  a  word  of  greeting  to  Cheyenne. 


46  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley  did  the  honors  which  included  a  sand- 
wich and  a  glass  of  beer  for  Cheyenne,  who 
leaned  with  his  elbow  on  the  bar  gazing  at  the 
men  around  the  table.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  Bartley  saw  the  proprietor  touch  Cheyenne's 
arm  and,  leaning  across  the  bar,  whisper  some- 
thing to  him.  Cheyenne  straightened  up  and 
seemed  to  be  adjusting  his  belt.  Bartley  caught 
a  name:  "Panhandle."  He  turned  and  glanced 
at  Cheyenne. 

The  humorous  expression  had  faded  from 
Cheyenne's  face  and  in  its  stead  there  was  a  sort 
of  grim,  speculative  line  to  the  mouth,  and  no 
twinkle  in  the  blue  eyes.  Bartley  stepped  over 
to  the  long  table  and  watched  the  game.  Craps, 
played  by  these  free-handed  sons  of  the  open, 
had  more  of  a  punch  than  he  had  imagined 
possible.  A  pile  of  silver  and  bills  lay  on  the 
table — a  tidy  sum — no  less  than  two  hundred 
dollars. 

Wishful,  the  sad-faced,  seemed  to  be  impor- 
tuning some  one  by  the  name  of  "Jimmy  Hicks'* 
to  make  himself  known,  as  the  dice  rattled  across 
the  board.  The  players  laughed  as  Wishful  re- 
linquished the  dice.  A  lean  outlander,  with  a 
scarred  face,  took  up  the  dice  and  made  a  throw. 
He  evidently  did  not  want  to  locate  an  individual 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  47 

called  "Little  Joe/'  whom  he  importuned  inces- 
santly to  stay  away. 

Side  bets  were  made  and  bills  and  silver  with- 
drawn or  added  to  the  pile  with  a  rapidity  which 
amazed  Bartley.  Hitherto  craps  had  meant  to 
him  three  or  four  newsboys  in  an  alley  and  a 
little  pile  of  nickels  and  pennies.  But  this  game 
was  of  robust  proportions.  It  had  pep  and  speed. 

Bartley  became  interested.  His  fingers  itched 
to  grasp  the  dice  and  try  his  luck.  But  he  real- 
ized that  his  amateurish  knowledge  of  the  game 
would  be  an  affront  to  those  free-moving  sons  of 
the  mesa.  So  he  contented  himself  with  watch- 
ing the  game  and  the  faces  of  the  men  as  they 
won  or  lost.  Bartley  felt  that  some  one  was 
close  behind  him  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
Cheyenne's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  player  known 
as  "Panhandle,"  and  on  no  other  person  at  that 
table.  Bartley  turned  back  to  the  game. 

Just  then  some  one  recognized  Cheyenne  and 
spoke  his  name.  The  game  stopped  and  Bart- 
ley saw  several  of  the  men  glance  curiously  from 
Cheyenne  to  the  man  known  as  "Panhandle." 
Then  the  game  was  resumed,  but  it  was  a  quieter 
game.  One  or  two  of  the  players  withdrew. 

"Play  a  five  for  me,"  said  Bartley,  turning  to 
Cheyenne. 


48  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I'll  do  that— fifty-fifty,"  said  Cheyenne  as 
Bartley  stepped  back  and  handed  him  a  bill. 

Cheyenne  straightway  elbowed  deeper  into 
the  group  and  finally  secured  the  dice.  Wish- 
ful, for  some  unknown  reason,  remarked  that  he 
would  back  Cheyenne  to  win — "shootin'  with 
either  hand,"  Wishful  concluded.  Bartley  no- 
ticed that  again  one  or  two  players  withdrew  and 
strolled  to  the  bar.  Meanwhile,  Cheyenne  threw 
and  sang  a  little  song  to  himself. 

His  throws  were  wild,  careless,  and  lucky. 
Slowly  he  accumulated  easy  wealth.  His  fore- 
head was  beaded  with  sweat.  His  eyes  glistened. 
He  forgot  his  song.  Bartley  stepped  over  to  the 
bar  and  chatted  for  a  few  minutes  with  the  pro- 
prietor, mentioning  Senator  Steve  and  his  wife. 

When  Bartley  returned  to  the  game  the  play- 
ers had  dwindled  to  a  small  group — -Wishful,  the 
man  called  "Panhandle,"  a  fat  Mexican,  a  rail- 
road engineer,  and  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  turned  to  a  bystander. 

"Cheyenne  seems  to  be  having  all  the  luck," 
he  said. 

"Is  he  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"Never  saw  him  until  to-night." 

"He  ain't  as  lucky  as  you  think,"  stated  the 
other  significantly. 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  49 

"How  is  that?" 

"Panhandle,  the  man  with  the  scar  on  his  face, 
ain't  no  friend  of  Cheyenne's." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

Bartley  turned  from  the  man,  and  watched 
the  players.  Wishful  had  withdrawn  from  the 
game,  but  he  stood  near  the  table,  watching 
closely.  Presently  the  fat  Mexican  quit  playing 
and  left.  Cheyenne  threw  and  won.  He  played 
as  though  the  dice  were  his  and  he  was  giving  an 
exhibition  for  the  benefit  of  the  other  players. 
Finally  the  engineer  quit,  and  counted  his  win- 
nings. Cheyenne  and  the  man,  Panhandle, 
faced  each  other,  with  Bartley  standing  close  to 
Cheyenne  and  Wishful,  who  had  moved  around 
the  table,  standing  close  to  Panhandle. 

Panhandle  took  up  the  dice.  There  was  no 
joy  in  his  play.  He  shot  the  dice  across  the 
table  viciously.  Every  throw  was  a  sort  of 
insidious  insult  to  his  competitor,  Cheyenne. 
Bartley  was  more  interested  in  the  performance 
than  the  actual  winning  or  losing,  although  he 
realized  that  Cheyenne  was  still  a  heavy  winner. 

Presently  Wishful  stepped  over  to  Bartley 
and  touched  his  arm.  Panhandle  and  Chey- 
enne were  intent  upon  their  game. 

"You  kin  see  better  from  that  side  of  the 


50  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

table,"  said  Wishful  mildly,  yet  with  a  peculiar 
significance. 

Bartley  glanced  up,  his  face  expressing  be- 
wilderment. 

"I  seen  you  slip  Cheyenne  a  bill,"  murmured 
Wishful.  "Accordin'  to  that,  you're  backin' 
him.  Thought  I'd  just  mention  it." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you're  driving  at," 
said  Bartley. 

"That's  just  why  I  spoke  to  you."  And 
Wishful's  face  expressed  a  sort  of  sad  wonder. 
But  then,  the  Easterner  had  not  been  in  town 
long  and  he  did  not  know  Panhandle. 

Wishful  turned  away  casually.  Bartley  no- 
ticed that  he  again  took  up  his  position  near 
Panhandle. 

This  time  Panhandle  glanced  up  and  asked 
Wishful  if  he  didn't  want  to  come  into  the  game. 

Wishful  shook  his  head.  "No  use  tryin*  to 
bust  his  luck,"  he  said,  indicating  Cheyenne. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Panhandle. 

"And  he's  got  good  backin',"  continued 
Wishful. 

Panhandle  slanted  a  narrow  glance  toward 
Bartley,  and  Bartley  felt  that  the  other  had 
somehow  or  other  managed  to  convey  an  insult 
and  a  challenge  in  that  glance,  which  suggested 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  51 

the  contempt  of  the  tough  Westerner  for  the 
supposedly  tender  Easterner. 

Bartley  did  not  know  just  what  was  on  the 
boards,  aside  from  dice  and  money,  but  he  took 
Wishful's  hint  and  moved  around  to  Panhandle's 
side  of  the  table,  leaving  Cheyenne  facing  his 
competitor  alone.  Bartley  happened  to  catch 
Cheyenne's  eye.  The  happy-go-lucky  expression 
was  gone.  Cheyenne's  face  seemed  troubled, 
yet  he  played  with  his  former  vigor  and  luck. 

Panhandle  posed  insolently,  his  thumb  in  his 
belt,  watching  the  dice.  He  was  all  but  broke. 
Cheyenne  kept  rolling  the  bones,  but  now  he 
evoked  no  aid  from  the  gods  of  African  golf. 
His  lips  were  set  in  a  thin  line. 

Suddenly  he  tossed  up  the  dice,  caught  them 
and  transferred  them  to  his  right  hand.  Hither- 
to he  had  been  shooting  with  his  left.  "I'll 
shoot  you,  either  hand,"  he  said. 

"And  win,"  murmured  Wishful. 

Panhandle  whirled  and  confronted  Wishful. 
"I  don't  see  any  of  your  money  on  the  table," 
he  snarled. 

"I'll  come  in — on  the  next  game/*  stated 
Wishful  mildly. 

Panhandle's  last  dollar  was  on  the  table.  He 
reached  forward  and  drew .  a  handful  of  bills 


52  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

from  the  pile  and  counted  them.  "Fifty,"  he 
said;  "fifty  against  the  pot  that  you  don't  make 
your  next  throw." 

"Suits  me,"  said  Cheyenne,  picking  up  the 
dice  and  shaking  them. • 

Cheyenne  threw  and  won  on  the  third  try. 
Panhandle  reached  toward  the  pile  of  money 
again. 

Cheyenne,  who  had  not  picked  up  the  dice, 
stopped  him.  "You  can't  play  on  that  money," 
he  stated  tensely.  "Half  of  it  belongs  to  Mr. 
Bartley,  there." 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it,"  chal- 
lenged Panhandle,  turning  to  Bartley. 

"Half  of  the  money  on  the  table  is  mine,  ac- 
cording to  agreement.  I  backed  Cheyenne  to 


win." 


"No  dam'  tenderfoot  can  tell  me  where  to 
head  in!"  exclaimed  Panhandle.  "Go  on  and 
shoot,  you  yella-bellied  waddie!"  And  Pan- 
handle reached  toward  the  money. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Bartley  quietly.  "The 
game  is  finished." 

"Take  your  mouth  out  of  this,  you  dam' 
dude!" 

"Put  your  gun  on  the  table — and  then  tell  me 
that,"  said  Bartley. 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  53 

Panhandle  lowered  his  hand  to  his  gun,  hesi- 
tated, and  then  whirling,  slapped  Hartley's 
face. 

Wishful,  the  silent,  jerked  out  his  own  gun 
and  rapped  Panhandle  on  the  head.  Pan- 
handle dropped  in  a  heap. 

It  had  happened  so  quickly  that  Bartley 
hardly  realized  what  had  happened.  Pan- 
handle was  on  the  floor,  literally  down  and 
out.  Bartley  was  surprised  that  such  an  ap- 
parently light  tap  on  the  head  should  put  a  man 
out. 

"Get  him  out  of  here,"  said  Tom,  the  pro- 
prietor. "I  don't  want  any  rough  stuff  in  here. 
And  if  I  were  in  your  boots,  Cheyenne,  I'd  leave 
town  for  a  while." 

"I'm  leavin'  to-morrow  morninV  Cheyenne 
was  coolly  counting  his  winnings. 

Wishful,  the  silent,  doused  a  glass  of  water 
in  Panhandle's  face.  Presently  Panhandle  was 
revived  and  helped  from  the  saloon.  His  former 
attitude  of  belligerency  had  entirely  evaporated. 
Wishful  followed  him  to  the  hitch-rail  and  saw 
him  mount  his  horse. 

"Your  best  bet  is  to  fan  it  back  where  you 
come  from,  and  stay  there,"  said  Wishful 
softly.  "You  don't  belong  in  this  town,  and 


54  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

you  can't  go  slappin'  any  of  my  guests  in  the 
face  and  get  away  with  it.  And  when  you  git 
so  you  can  think  it  over,  just  figure  that  if  I 
hadn't  'a'  slowed  you  down,  Cheyenne  would 
'a'  killed  you." 

Panhandle  did  not  feel  like  discussing  the 
question  just  then.  He  left  without  even 
turning  to  glance  back.  If  he  had  glanced 
back,  he  would  have  seen  that  Wishful  had 
disappeared.  Wishful,  familiar  with  the  ways 
of  Panhandle  and  his  kind,  immediately  sought 
the  shadows,  leaving  the  lighted  doorway  a 
blank.  He  entered  the  saloon  from  the  rear. 

Cheyenne  was  endeavoring  to  make  Bartley 
take  half  of  the  winnings.  "You  staked  me — 
and  it's  fifty-fifty,  pardner,"  insisted  Cheyenne. 

Finally  Bartley  accepted  his  share  of  the 
money  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Now  I  can  get  back  at  you,"  stated  Chey- 
enne, gesturing  toward  the  bar. 

His  gesture  included  both  Wishful  and  Bart- 
ley. Bartley,  a  bit  shaken,  accepted  the  invita- 
tion. Wishful,  not  at  all  shaken,  but  rather  a 
bit  more  silent  and  melancholy  than  heretofore, 
also  accepted. 

Alone  in  his  room  at  the  hotel,  Bartley  won- 
dered what  would  have  happened  if  Wishful 


TOP  HAND  ONCE  55 

had  not  rapped  Panhandle  on  the  head.  Hartley 
recalled  the  fact  that  he  had  drawn  back  his 
arm,  intending  to  take  one  good  punch  at  Pan- 
handle, even  if  it  were  his  last.  But  Panhandle 
had  crumpled  down  suddenly,  silently,  and 
Wishful  had  stood  over  him,  gazing  down 
speculatively  and  swinging  his  gun  back  and 
forth  before  he  returned  it  to  the  holster.  "They 
move  quick,  in  this  country,"  thought  Bartley. 
"And  speaking  of  material  for  a  story — "  Then 
he  smiled. 

Somewhere  out  on  the  mesa  Cheyenne  had 
spread  his  bed-roll  and  was  no  doubt  sleeping 
peacefully.  Bartley  shook  his  head.  He  had 
been  in  Antelope  but  two  days  and  yet  it  seemed 
that  months  had  passed  since  he  had  stepped 
from  the  westbound  train  to  telegraph  to  his 
friend  in  California.  Incidentally,  he  decided 
to  purchase  an  automatic  pistol. 


CHAPTER   VI 

A  HORSE-TRADE 

WHEN  Bartley  came  down  to  breakfast  next 
morning  he  noticed  two  horses  tied  at  the  hitch- 
rail  in  front  of  the  hotel.  One  of  the  horses,  a 
rather  stocky  gray,  bore  a  pack.  The  other,  a 
short-coupled,  sturdy  buckskin,  was  saddled. 
Evidently  Cheyenne  was  trying  to  catch  up 
with  his  dinner  schedule,  for  as  Bartley  entered 
the  dining-room  he  saw  him,  sitting  face  to  face 
with  a  high  stack  of  flapjacks,  at  the  base  of 
which  reposed  two  fried  eggs  among  some  curled 
slivers  of  bacon. 

Two  railroad  men,  a  red-eyed  Eastern  tour- 
ist who  looked  as  though  he  had  not  slept  for  a 
week,  a  saturnine  cattleman  in  from  the  mesas, 
and  two  visiting  ladies  from  an  adjacent  town 
comprised  the  tale  of  guests  that  morning.  As 
Bartley  came  in  the  guests  glanced  at  him  curi- 
ously. They  had  heard  of  the  misunderstanding 
at  the  Blue  Front. 

Cheyenne  immediately  rose  and  offered  Bart- 
ley a  chair  at  his  table.  The  two  women,  alone 
at  their  table,  immediately  became  subdued 


A  HOUSE-TRADE  57 

and  watchful.  They  were  gazing  their  first 
upon  an  author.  Wishful  had  made  the  fact 
known,  with  some  pride.  The  ladies,  whom 
Cheyenne  designated  as  "cow-bunnies," — or 
wives  of  ranchers , — were  dressed  in  their  "best 
clothes,"  and  were  trying  to  live  up  to  them. 
They  had  about  finished  breakfast,  and  shortly 
after  Bartley  was  seated  they  rose.  On  their 
way  out  they  stopped  at  Cheyenne's  table. 

"Don't  forget  to  stop  by  when  you  ride  our 
way,"  said  one  of  the  women. 

Bartley  noticed  the  toil-worn  hands,  and 
the  lines  that  hard  work  and  worry  had  graven 
in  her  face.  Her  "best  clothes"  rather  ac- 
centuated these  details.  But  back  of  it  all  he 
sensed  the  resolute  spirit  of  the  West,  resource- 
ful, progressive,  large- visioned. 

"Meet  Mr.  Bartley,"  said  Cheyenne  un- 
expectedly. 

Which  was  just  what  the  two  women  had 
been  itching  to  do.  Bartley  rose  and  shook 
hands  with  them. 

"A  couple  of  lady  friends  of  mine/*  said 
Cheyenne  when  they  had  gone. 

Cheyenne  made  no  mention  of  the  previous 
evening's  game,  or  its  climax.  Yet  Bartley  had 
gathered  from  Wishful  that  Panhandle  Sears 


58  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

and  Cheyenne  had  an  unsettled  quarrel  between 
them. 

In  the  hotel  office  Cheyenne  purchased  cigars 
and  proffered  Bartley  a  half-dozen.  Bartley 
took  one.  Cheyenne  seemed  disappointed. 
When  cigars  were  going  round,  it  seemed  strange 
not  to  take  full  advantage  of  the  circumstance. 
As  they  stepped  out  to  the  veranda,  the  horses 
recognized  Cheyenne  and  nickered  gently. 

*  'Going  south?"  queried  Bartley. 

"That's  me.  I  got  the  silver  changed  to 
bills  and  some  of  the  bills  changed  to  grub. 
I  reckon  I'll  head  south.  Kind  of  wish  you 
was  headed  that  way." 

Bartley  bit  the  end  from  his  cigar  and  lighted 
it,  as  he  gazed  out  across  the  morning  mesa. 
A  Navajo  buck  loped  past  and  jerked  his  little 
paint  horse  to  a  stop  at  the  drug-store. 

Cheyenne,  pulling  up  a  cinch,  smiled  at 
Bartley. 

"That  Injun  was  in  a  hurry  till  he  got  here. 
And  he'll  be  in  a  hurry,  leavin'.  But  you 
notice  how  easy  he  takes  it  right  now.  Injuns 
has  got  that  dignity  idea  down  fine." 

"Did  he  come  in  for  medicine,  perhaps?" 

"Mebby.  But  most  like  he's  after  chewin'- 
gum  for  his  squaw,  and  cigarettes  for  himself, 


A  HORSE-TRADE  59 

with  a  bottle  of  red  pop  on  the  side.  Injuns 
always  buy  red  pop." 

"Cigarettes  and  chewing-gum?" 

"Sure  thing!  Didn't  you  ever  see  a  squaw 
chew  gum  and  smoke  a  tailor-made  cigarette 
at  the  same  time?  You  didn't,  eh?  Well, 
then,  you  got  somethin'  comin'." 

"Romance!"  laughed  Bartley. 

"Ever  sleep  in  a  Injun  hogan?"  queried  Chey- 
enne as  he  busied  himself  adjusting  the  pack. 

"No.   This  is  my  first  trip  West." 

"I  was  forgettin'.  Well,  I  ain't  what  you'd 
call  a  dude,  but,  honest,  if  I  was  prospectin' 
round  lookin'  for  Injun  romance  I'd  use  a  pair 
of  field-glasses.  Injuns  is  all  right  if  you're 
far  enough  up  wind  from  'em." 

"When  do  you  start?"  asked  Bartley. 

"Oh,  'most  any  time.  And  that's  when  I'll 
get  there." 

"Well,  give  my  regards  to  Senator  Brown  and 
his  wife,  if  you  happen  to  see  them." 

"Sure  thing!    I'm  on  my  way.    You  know — 

I  was  top-hand  once — but  the  trail  for  mine: 

Git  along,  cay  use,  git  along! 
But  now  I'm  ridin'  the  old  chuck  line, 

Feedin'  good  and  a-feelin*  fine: 
Oh,  some  folks  eat  and  some  folks  dine, 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along! 


60  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley  smiled.  Here  was  the  real  hobo, 
the  irrepressible  absolute.  Cheyenne  stepped 
up  and  swung  to  the  saddle  with  the  effortless 
ease  of  the  old  hand.  Bartley  noticed  that  the 
pack-horse  had  no  lead-rope,  nor  had  he  been 
tied.  Bartley  did  not  know  that  Filaree,  the 
pack-horse,  would  never  let  Joshua,  the  saddle- 
horse,  out  of  his  sight.  They  had  traveled  the 
Arizona  trails  together  for  years. 

In  spite  of  his  happy-go-lucky  indifference 
to  persons  and  events,  Cheyenne  had  a  sort 
of  intuitive  shrewdness  in  reading  humans. 
And  he  read  in  Bartley's  glance  a  half-awak- 
ened desire  to  outfit  and  hit  the  trail  himself. 
But  Cheyenne  departed  without  suggesting  any 
such  idea.  Every  man  for  himself  was  his 
motto.  "And  as  for  me,"  he  added,  aloud: 

Seems  like  I  don't  git  anywhere, 

Git  along,  cay  use,  git  along; 
But  we're  leavin'  here  and  we're  goin*  there: 

Git  along,  cay  use,  git  along! 

With  little  ole  Josh  that  steps  right  free, 
And  my  ole  gray  pack-hoss,  Filaree, 

The  world  ain't  got  no  rope  on  me: 
Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along! 

Bartley  watched  him  as  he  crossed  the  rail- 
road tracks  and  turned  down  a  side  street. 


A  HORSE-TRADE  61 

Back  in  his  room  Bartley  paced  up  and  down, 
keeping  time  to  the  tune  of  Cheyenne's  trail 
song.  The  morning  sun  poured  down  upon  the 
station  roof  opposite,  and  danced  flickering 
across  the  polished  tracks  of  the  railroad.  Pres- 
ently Bartley  stopped  pacing  his  room  and  stood 
at  the  window.  Far  out  across  the  mesa  he  saw 
a  rider,  drifting  along  in  the  sunshine,  followed 
by  a  gray  pack-horse. 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Bartley.  "He  may 
be  a  sort  of  wandering  joke  to  the  citizens  of 
this  State,  but  he's  doing  what  he  wants  to  do, 
and  that's  more  than  I'm  doing.  Just  fifty 
miles  to  Senator  Brown's  ranch.  Drop  in  and 
see  us.  As  the  chap  in  Denver  said  when  he 
wrote  to  his  friend  in  El  Paso:  'Drop  into 
Denver  some  evening  and  I'll  show  you  the 
sights.'  Distance?  Negligible.  Time?  An 
inconsequent  factor.  Big  stuff!  As  for  me,  I 
think  I'll  go  downstairs  and  interview  the  pen- 
sive Wishful." 

Wishful  had  the  Navajo  blankets  and  chairs 
piled  up  in  the  middle  of  the  hotel  office  and 
was  thoughtfully  sweeping  out  cigar  ashes, 
cigarette  stubs,  and  burned  matches.  Wishful, 
besides  being  proprietor  of  the  Antelope  House, 
was  chambermaid,  baggage-wrangler,  clerk,  ad- 


62  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

vertising  manager,  and,  upon  occasion,  waiter 
in  his  own  establishment.  And  he  kept  a  neat 
place. 

Bartley  walked  over  to  the  desk.  Wishful 
kept  on  sweeping.  Bartley  glanced  at  the  signa- 
tures on  the  register.  Near  the  bottom  of  the 
page  he  found  Cheyenne's  name,  and  opposite 
it  "Arizona." 

"Where  does  Cheyenne  beiong,  anyway?" 
queried  Bartley. 

Wishful  stopped  sweeping  and  leaned  on  his 
broom.  "Wherever  he  happens  to  be."  And 
Wishful  sighed  and  began  sweeping  again. 

"What  sort  of  traveling  companion  would  he 
make?" 

Wishful  stopped  sweeping.  His  melancholy 
gaze  was  fixed  on  a  defunct  cigar.  "Never 
heard  either  of  his  bosses  object  to  his  com- 
pany," he  replied. 

Bartley  grinned  and  glanced  up  and  down  the 
register.  Wishful  dug  into  a  corner  with  his 
broom.  Something  shot  rattling  across  the 
floor.  Wishful  laid  down  the  broom  and  upon 
hands  and  knees  began  a  search.  Presently 
he  rose.  A  slow  smile  illumined  his  face.  He 
had  found  a  pair  of  dice  in  the  litter  on  the 
floor.  He  made  a  throw,  shook  his  head,  and 


A  HORSE-TRADE  63 

picked  up  the  dice.  His  sweeping  became  more 
sprightly.  Amused  by  the  preoccupation  of  the 
lank  and  cautiously  humorous  Wishful,  Bartley 
touched  the  bell  on  the  desk.  Wishful  promptly 
stood  his  broom  against  the  wall,  rolled  down 
his  sleeves,  and  stepped  behind  the  counter. 

"I  think  I'll  pay  my  bill,"  said  Bartley. 

Wishful  promptly  named  the  amount.  Bart- 
ley proffered  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

Wishful  searched  in  the  till  for  change.  He 
shook  his  head.  "You  got  two  dollars  corn- 
in',"  he  stated. 

"I'll  shake  you  for  that  two  dollars,"  said 
Bartley. 

Wishful's  tired  eyes  lighted  up.  "You  said 
some  thin'."  And  he  produced  the  dice. 

Just  then  the  distant  "Zoom"  of  the  west- 
bound Overland  shook  the  silence.  Wishful 
hesitated,  then  gestured  magnificently  toward 
space.  WTiat  was  the  arrival  of  a  mere  train, 
with  possibly  a  guest  or  so  for  the  hotel,  com- 
pared with  a  game  of  craps? 

While  they  played,  the  train  steamed  in  and 
was  gone.  Wishful  won  the  two  dollars. 

Bartley  escaped  to  the  veranda  and  his  re- 
flections. Presently  he  rose  and  strolled  round 
to  the  corral.  Wishful's  three  saddle-animals 


64  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

were  lazying  in  the  heat.  Hartley  was  not 
unfamiliar  with  the  good  points  of  a  horse.  He 
rejected  the  sorrel  with  the  Roman  nose,  as 
stubborn  and  foolish.  The  flea-bitten  gray  was 
all  horse,  but  he  had  a  white-rimmed  eye.  The 
chestnut  bay  was  a  big,  hardy  animal,  but  he 
appeared  rather  slow  and  deliberate.  Yet  he 
had  good,  solid  feet,  plenty  of  bone,  deep  with- 
ers, and  powerful  hindquarters. 

Bartley  stepped  round  to  the  hotel.  "Have 
you  a  minute  to  spare?"  he  queried  as  Wishful 
finished  rearranging  the  furniture  of  the  lobby. 

Wishful  had.  He  followed  Bartley  round  to 
the  corral. 

"I'm  thinking  of  buying  a  saddle-horse," 
stated  Bartley. 

Wishful  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  corral  bar. 
"Why  don't  you  rent  one — and  turn  him  in 
when  you're  through  with  him." 

"I'd  rather  own  one,  and  I  may  use  him  a 
long  time." 

"I  ain't  sufferin'  to  sell  any  of  my  bosses, 
Mr.  Bartley.  But  I  wouldn't  turn  down  a  fair 
offer." 

"Set  a  price  on  that  sorrel,"   said  Bartley. 

Now,  Wishful  was  willing  to  part  with  the 
sorrel,  which  was  showy  and  looked  fast.  Bart- 


A  HORSE-TRADE  65 

ley  did  not  want  the  animal.  He  merely  wanted 
to  arrive  at  a  basis  from  which  to  work. 

"Well/'  drawled  Wishful,  "I'd  let  him  go  for 
a  hundred." 

"What  will  you  take  for  the  gray?" 

"Him?  Well,  he's  the  best  hoss  I  got.  I 
don't  think  he's  your  kind  of  a  hoss." 

"The  best,  eh?  And  a  hundred  for  the  sor- 
rel." Bartley  appeared  to  reflect. 

Wishful  really  wanted  to  sell  the  gray,  de- 
scribing him  as  the  best  horse  he  owned  to 
awaken  Bartley's  interest.  The  best  horse  in 
the  corral  was  the  big  bay  cow-horse;  but  Wish- 
ful had  no  idea  that  Bartley  knew  that. 

"Would  you  put  a  price  on  the  gray?"  queried 
Bartley. 

"Why,  sure!  You  can  have  him,  for  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five." 

"A  hundred  for  the  sorrel — and  a  hundred 
and  twenty-five  for  the  gray;  is  that  correct?" 

"Yep." 

"And  you  say  the  gray  is  the  best  horse  in  the 
corral?" 

"He  sure  is!" 

"All  right.  I'll  give  you  a  hundred  for  that 
big  bay,  there.  I  don't  want  to  rob  you  of  your 
best  horse,  Wishful." 


66  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Wishful  saw  that  he  was  cornered.  He  had 
cornered  himself,  premising  that  the  Easterner 
didn't  know  horses.  "That  bay  ain't  much 
account,  Mr.  Bartley.  He's  slow — nothin'  but 
a  ole  cow-hoss  I  kind  of  keep  around  for  odd 
jobs  of  ropin'  and  such." 

"Well,  he's  good  enough  for  me.  I'll  give 
you  a  hundred  for  him." 

Wishful  scratched  his  head.  He  did  not  want 
to  sell  the  bay  for  that  sum,  yet  he  was  too  good 
a  sport  to  go  back  on  his  word. 

"Say,  where  was  you  raised?"  he  queried 
abruptly. 

"In  Kentucky." 

"Hell,  I  thought  you  was  from  New  York?" 

"I  lived  in  Kentucky  until  I  was  twenty- 
five." 

"Was  your  folks  hoss-traders?" 

"Not  exactly,"  laughed  Bartley.  "My  father 
always  kept  a  few  good  saddle-horses,  however." 

"Uh-huh?  I  reckon  he  did.  And  you  ain't 
forgot  what  a  real  hoss  looks  like,  either." 
Wishful's  pensive  countenance  lighted  sud- 
denly. "You'll  be  wantin'  a  rig — saddle  and 
bridle  and  slicker  and  saddle-bags.  Now  I  got 
just  what  you  want." 

Bartley  stepped  to  the  stable  and  inspected 


A  HORSE-TRADE  67 

the  outfit.  It  was  old  and  worn,  and  worth, 
Bartley  estimated,  about  thirty  dollars,  all  told. ' 

"I'll  let  you  have  the  whole  outfit — boss  and 
rig  and  all,  for  two  hundred,"  stated  Wishful 
unblushingly. 

"I  priced  a  saddle,  over  in  the  shop  across 
from  the  station,  this  morning,"  said  Bartley. 
"With  bridle  and  blanket  and  saddle-pockets  it 
would  only  stand  me  ninety  dollars.  If  the  bay 
is  the  poorest  horse  you  own,  then  at  your 
figure  this  outfit  would  come  rather  high." 

"I  might  'a'  knowed  it!"  stated  Wishful. 
"Say,  Mr.  Bartley,  give  me  a  hundred  and  fifty 
for  the  hoss  and  I'll  throw  in  the  rig." 

"No.  I  know  friendship  ceases  when  a  horse- 
trade  begins;  but  I  am  only  taking  you  at  your 
word." 

"I  sure  done  overlooked  a  bet,  this  trip," 
said  Wishful.  "Say,  I  reckon  you  must  'a*  cut 
your  first  tooth  on  a  cinch-ring.  I  done  learnt 
somethin'  this  mornin'.  Private  eddication 
comes  high,  but  I'm  game.  Write  your  check 
for  a  hundred — and  take  the  bay.  By  rights 
I  ought  to  give  him  to  you,  seein'  as  how  you 
done  roped  and  branded  me  for  a  blattin'  yearl- 
in'  the  first  throw;  and  you  been  out  West  just 
three  days !  You'll  git  along  in  this  country." 


68  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I  hope  so,"  laughed  Bartley.  "Speaking 
of  getting  along,  I  plan  to  visit  Senator  Brown. 
How  long  will  it  take  me  to  get  there,  riding 
the  bay?" 

"He's  got  a  runnin'  walk  that  is  good  for 
six  miles  an  hour.  He's  a  walkin'  fool.  And 
anything  you  git  your  rope  on,  he'll  hold  it  till 
you're  gray-headed  and  got  whiskers.  That 
ole  hoss  is  the  best  cow-hoss  in  Antelope  County 
— 'and  I'm  referrin'  you  to  Steve  Brown  to  back 
me  up.  I  bought  that  hoss  from  Steve.  Any 
time  you  see  the  Box-S  brand  on  a  hoss,  you 
can  figure  he's  a  good  one." 

"I  suppose  I'd  have  to  camp  on  the  mesa  two 
or  three  nights,"  said  Bartley. 

"Nope!  Ole  Dobe'll  make  it  in  two  days. 
He  don't  look  fast,  but  the  trail  sure  fades  be- 
hind him  when  he's  travelin'.  I'm  kind  of 
glad  you  didn't  try  to  buy  the  Antelope  House. 
You'd  started  in  pricin'  the  stable,  and  kind  of 
milled  around  and  ast  me  what  I'd  sell  the 
kitchen  for,  and  afore  I  knowed  it,  you'd  'a*  had 
me  selling  the  hotel  for  less  than  the  stable.  I  fig- 
ure you'd  made  a  amazin'  hand  at  shoo  tin'  craps." 

"Let's  step  over  and  buy  that  saddle,  and 
the  rest  of  it.  Will  you  engineer  the  deal?  I 
don't  know  much  about  Western  saddlery." 


A  HORSE-TRADE  69 

"Shucks!  You  can  take  that  ole  rig  I  was 
showin'  you.  She  ain't  much  on  looks,  but  she's 
aU  there." 

"Thanks.    But  I'd  rather  buy  a  new  outfit." 

"When  do  you  aim  to  start?" 

"Right  away.  I  suppose  I'll  need  a  blanket 
and  some  provisions." 

"Yes.  But  you'll  catch  up  with  Cheyenne, 
if  you  keep  movin'.  He  won't  travel  fast  with  a 
pack-boss  along.  He'll  most  like  camp  at  the 
first  water,  about  twenty-five  miles  south.  But 
you  can  pack  some  grub  in  your  saddle-bags, 
and  play  safe.  And  take  a  canteen  along." 

Wishful  superintended  the  purchasing  of  the 
new  outfit,  and  seemed  unusually  keen  about 
seeing  Bartley  well  provided  for  at  the  minimum 
cost.  Wishful's  respect  for  the  Easterner  had 
been  greatly  enhanced  by  the  recent  horse-deal. 
W7hen  it  came  to  the  question  of  clothing,  Wish- 
ful wisely  suggested  overalls  and  a  rowdy,  as 
being  weather  and  brush  proof.  Incidentally 
Wishful  asked  Bartley  why  he  had  paid  his  bill 
before  he  had  actually  prepared  to  start  on  the 
journey.  Bartley  told  Wishful  that  he  would  not 
have  prepared  to  start  had  he  not  paid  the  bill 
on  impulse. 

"Well,   some  folks   git   started   on   impulse, 


70  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

afore  they  pay  their  bills,  and  keep  right  on 
fannin'  it,"  asserted  Wishful. 

An  hour  later  Bartley  was  ready  for  the  trail. 
With  some  food  in  the  saddle-pockets,  a  blanket 
tied  behind  the  cantle,  and  a  small  canteen 
hung  on  the  horn,  he  felt  equipped  to  make  the 
journey.  Wishful  suggested  that  he  stay  until 
after  the  noon  hour,  but  Bartley  declined.  He 
would  eat  a  sandwich  or  two  on  the  way. 

"And  ole  Dobe  knows  the  trail  to  Steve's 
ranch,"  said  Wishful,  as  he  walked  around  horse 
and  rider,  giving  them  a  final  inspection.  "And 
you  don't  have  to  cinch  ole  Dobe  extra  tight," 
he  advised.  "He  carries  a  saddle  good.  'Course 
that  new  leather  will  stretch  some." 

"How  old  fa  Dobe?"  queried  Bartley.  "You 
keep  calling  him  'old.' s 

"I  seen  you  mouthin'  him,  after  you  had 
saddled  him.  How  old  would  you  say?" 

"Seven,  going  on  eight." 

"Git  along!  And  if  anybody  gits  the  best 
of  you  in  a  hoss-trade,  wire  me  collect.  It'll 
sure  be  news!" 

Bartley  settled  himself  in  the  saddle  and 
touched  Dobe  with  the  spurs. 

"Give  my  regards  to  Senator  Steve — and 
Cheyenne,"  called  Wishful. 


A  HORSE-TRADE  71 

Wistful  stood  gazing  after  his  recent  guest 
until  he  had  disappeared  around  a  corner. 
Then  Wishful  strode  into  the  hotel  office  and 
marked  a  blue  cross  on  the  big  wall  calendar. 
A  humorous  smile  played  about  his  mouth.  It 
was  a  mark  to  indicate  the  day  and  date  that 
an  Eastern  tenderfoot  had  got  the  best  of  him 
in  a  horse-deal. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT  THE  WATER-HOLE 

BEFORE  Bartley  had  been  riding  an  hour  he 
knew  that  he  had  a  good  horse  under  him. 
Dobe  "followed  his  head"  and  did  not  flirt  with 
his  shadow,  although  he  was  grain-fed  and  ready 
to  go.  When  Dobe  trotted — -an  easy,  swinging 
trot  that  ate  into  the  miles — Bartley  tried  to 
post,  English  style.  But  Dobe  did  not  under- 
stand that  style  of  riding  a  trot.  Each  time 
Bartley  raised  in  the  stirrups,  Dobe  took  it  for 
a  signal  to  lope.  Finally  Bartley  caught  the 
knack  of  leaning  forward  and  riding  a  trot  with 
a  straight  leg,  and  to  his  surprise  he  found  it 
was  a  mighty  satisfactory  method  and  much 
easier  than  posting. 

The  mesa  trail  was  wide — in  reality  a  cross- 
country road,  so  Bartley  had  opportunity  to  try 
Dobe's  different  gaits.  The  running  walk  was  a 
joy  to  experience,  the  trot  was  easy,  and  the 
lope  as  regular  and  smooth  as  the  swing  of  a 
pendulum.  Finally  Bartley  settled  to  the  best 
long-distance  gait  of  all,  the  running  walk,  and 
began  to  enjoy  the  vista;  the  wide-sweeping, 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  7S 

southern  reaches  dotted  with  buttes,  the  line  of 
the  far  hills  crowded  against  the  sky,  and  the 
intense  light  in  which  there  was  no  faintest  trace 
of  blur  or  moisture.  Everything  within  normal 
range  of  vision  stood  out  clean-edged  and  defi- 
nite. 

Unaccustomed  to  riding  a  horse  that  neck- 
reined  at  the  merest  touch,  and  one  that  stopped 
at  the  slightest  tightening  of  the  rein,  Bartley 
had  to  learn  through  experience  that  a  spade  bit 
requires  delicate  handling.  He  was  jogging 
along  easily  when  he  turned  to  glance  back  at 
the  town — now  a  far,  huddled  group  of  tiny 
buildings.  Inadvertently  he  tightened  rein. 
Dobe  stopped  short.  Bartley  promptly  went 
over  the  fork  and  slid  to  the  ground. 

Dobe  gazed  down  at  his  rider  curiously, 
ears  cocked  forward,  as  though  trying  to  under- 
stand just  what  his  rider  meant  to  do  next. 
Bartley  expected  to  see  the  horse  whirl  and 
leave  for  home.  But  Dobe  stood  patiently 
until  his  rider  had  mounted.  Bartley  glanced 
round  covertly,  wondering  if  any  one  had  wit- 
nessed his  impromptu  descent.  Then  he 
laughed,  realizing  that  it  was  a  long  way  to 
Central  Park,  flat  saddles  and  snafHes. 

A  little  later  he  ate  two  of  the  sandwiches 


74  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Wishful  had  thoughtfully  provided,  and  drank 
from  the  canteen.  Gradually  the  shadows  of 
the  buttes  lengthened.  The  afternoon  heat 
ebbed  away  in  little,  infrequent  puffs  of  wind. 
The  western  reaches  of  the  great  mesa  seemed 
to  expand,  while  the  southern  horizon  drew 
nearer. 

Presently  Hartley  noticed  pony  tracks  on 
the  road,  and  either  side  of  the  tracks  the  mark 
of  wheels.  Here  the  wagon  had  swung  aside  to 
avoid  a  bit  of  bad  going,  yet  the  tracks  of  two 
horses  still  kept  the  middle  of  the  road.  "Sena- 
tor Brown — and  Cheyenne,"  thought  Bartley, 
studying  the  tracks.  He  became  interested  in 
them.  Here,  again,  Cheyenne  had  dismounted, 
possibly  to  tighten  a  cinch.  There  was  the  stub 
of  a  cigarette.  Farther  along  the  tracks  were 
lost  in  the  rocky  ground  of  the  petrified  forest. 
He  had  made  twenty  miles  without  realizing  it. 

Winding  in  and  out  among  the  shattered  and 
fallen  trunks  of  those  prehistoric  trees,  Bartley 
forgot  where  he  was  until  he  passed  the  bluish- 
gray  sweep  of  burned  earth  edging  the  forest. 
Presently  a  few  dwarf  junipers  appeared.  He 
was  getting  higher,  although  the  mesa  seemed 
level.  Again  he  discovered  the  tracks  of  the 
horses  in  the  powdered  red  clay  of  the  road. 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  75 

He  crossed  a  shallow  arroyo,  sandy  and  wide. 
Later  he  came  suddenly  upon  a  red  clay  cut- 
bank,  and  a  hint  of  water  where  the  bank  shad- 
owed the  mud-smeared  rocks.  He  rode  slowly, 
preoccupied  in  studying  the  country.  The  sun 
showed  close  to  the  rim  of  the  world  when  he 
finally  realized  that,  if  he  meant  to  get  anywhere, 
he  had  better  be  about  it.  Dobe  promptly 
caught  the  change  of  his  rider's  mental  attitude 
and  stepped  out  briskly.  Bartley  patted  the 
horse's  neck. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  ride  an  animal  that 
seemed  to  want  to  work  with  a  man  and  not 
against  him.  The  horse  had  cost  one  hundred 
dollars — a  fair  price  for  such  a  horse  in  those 
days.  Yet  Bartley  thought  it  a  very  reason- 
able price.  And  he  knew  he  had  a  bargain. 
He  felt  clearly  confident  that  the  big  cow- 
pony  would  serve  him  in  any  circumstance  or 
hazard. 

As  a  long,  undulating  stretch  of  road  ap- 
peared, softly  brown  in  the  shadows,  Bartley 
began  to  look  about  for  the  water-hole  which 
Wishful  had  spoken  about.  The  sun  slipped 
from  sight.  The  dim,  gray  road  reached  on  and 
on,  shortening  in  perspective  as  the  quick  night 
swept  down. 


*76  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Beyond  and  about  was  a  dusky  wall  through 
which  loomed  queer  shapes  that  seemed  to  move 
and  change  until,  approached,  they  became 
junipers.  Hartley's  gaze  became  fixed  upon  the 
road.  That,  at  least,  was  a  reality.  He  reached 
back  and  untied  his  coat  and  swung  into  it.  An 
early  star  flared  over  the  southern  hills.  He  won- 
dered if  he  had  passed  the  water-hole.  He  had 
a  canteen,  but  Dobe  would  need  water.  But 
Dobe  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  trail 
from  Antelope  to  the  White  Hills.  And  Dobe 
-smelled  the  presence  of  his  kind,  even  while 
Bartley,  peering  ahead  in  the  dusk,  rode  on, 
not  aware  that  some  one  was  camped  within 
calling  distance  of  the  trail.  A  cluster  of  junipers 
hid  the  faint  glow  of  the  camp-fire. 

Dobe  stopped  suddenly.  Bartley  urged  him 
on.  For  the  first  time  the  big  horse  showed  an 
inclination  to  ignore  the  rein.  Bartley  gazed 
round,  saw  nothing  in  particular,  and  spoke  to 
the  horse,  urging  him  forward.  Dobe  turned 
and  marched  deliberately  away  from  the  road, 
heading  toward  the  west,  and  nickered.  From 
behind  the  screen  of  junipers  came  an  answering 
nicker.  Bartley  hallooed.  No  one  answered 
him.  Yet  Dobe  seemed  to  know  what  he  was 
He  plodded  on,  down  a  slight  grade. 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  77 

Suddenly  the  soft  glow  of  a  camp-fire  illumined 
the  hollow. 

A  blanket-roll,  a  saddle,  a  coil  of  rope,  and  a 
battered  canteen  and  the  fire — but  no  habitant 
of  the  camp. 

"Hello!"  shouted  Bartley. 

Dobe  shied  and  snorted  as  a  figure  loomed  in 
the  dusk,  and  Cheyenne  was  peering  up  at  him. 

"Is  this  the  water-hole?"  Bartley  asked 
inanely. 

"This  is  her.  I'm  sure  glad  to  see  you!  I 
feel  like  a  plumb  fool  for  standin'  you  up  that 
way — but  I  didn't  quite  get  you  till  I  seen  your 
face.  I  thought  I  knowed  your  voice,  but  I 
never  did  see  you  in  jeans,  and  ridin'  a  hoss 
before.  And  that  hat  ain't  like  the  one  you  wore 
in  Antelope." 

"Then  you  didn't  know  just  what  to  expect?" 

"I  wa'n't  sure.  But  say,  I  got  some  coffee 
goin' — and  some  bacon.  Light  down  and  give 
your  saddle  a  rest." 

"I'll  just  water  my  horse  and  stake  him  out 
and—" 

"I'll  show  you  where.  I  see  you're  ridin' 
Dobe.  Wishful  rent  him  to  you?" 

"No.     I  bought  him." 

"If  you  don't  mind  tellin*  me — how  much?" 


78  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 


"A  hundred." 

"Was  Wishful  drunk?3 


"No." 

"Well,  you  got  a  real  hoss,  there.  The  water 
is  right  close.  Old  Dobe  knows  where  it  is. 
Just  lift  off  your  saddle  and  turn  him  loose — or 
mebby  you  better  hobble  him  the  first  night. 
He  ain't  used  to  travelin'  with  you,  yet." 

"I  have  a  stake-rope,"  said  Bartley. 

"A  hoss  would  starve  on  a  stake-rope  out  here. 
I'll  make  you  a  pair  of  hobbles,  pronto.  Then 
he'll  stick  with  my  hosses." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"Runnin'  around  out  there  somewhere.  They 
never  stray  far  from  camp." 

Bartley  watched  Cheyenne  untwist  a  piece 
of  soft  rope  and  make  a  pair  of  serviceable 
hobbles. 

"Now  he'll  travel  easy  and  git  enough  grass 
to  keep  him  in  shape.  And  them  hobbles  won't 
burn  him.  Any  time  you're  shy  of  hobbles, 
that's  how  to  make  'em." 

Later,  as  Bartley  sat  by  the  fire  and  ate, 
Cheyenne  asked  him  if  Panhandle  had  been  seen 
in  town  since  the  night  of  the  crap  game.  Bart- 
ley told  him  that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  Pan- 
handle. 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  79 

"He's  ridin*  this  country,  somewhere,"  said 
Cheyenne.  "You're  headed  for  Steve's  ranch?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  Steve'll  sure  give  you  the  time  of  your 
life." 

"I  think  I'll  stay  there  a  few  days,  if  the 
Senator  can  make  room  for  me." 

"Room!  Wait  till  you  see  Steve's  place. 
And  say,  if  you  want  to  get  wise  to  how  they  run 
a  cattle  outfit,  just  throw  in  with  the  boys,  tell 
'em  you're  a  plumb  tenderfoot  and  can't  ride  a 
bronc,  nohow,  and  that  you  never  took  down  a 
rope  in  your  life,  and  that  all  you  know  about 
cattle  is  what  you've  et,  and  then  the  boys  will 
use  you  white.  There's  nothin'  puts  a  fella  in 
wrong  with  the  boys  quicker  than  for  him  to  let 
on  he  is  a  hand  when  he  ain't.  'Course  the  boys 
won't  mind  seein'  you  top  a  bronc  and  get 
throwed,  just  to  see  if  you  got  sand." 

Meanwhile  Cheyenne  manipulated  the  coffee- 
pot and  skillet  most  effectively.  And  while 
Bartley  ate  his  supper,  Cheyenne  talked,  seem- 
ingly glad  to  have  a  companion  to  talk  to. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  apropos  of  nothing  in 
particular,  "entertainin*  folks  with  the  latest 
news  is  my  long  suit.  I'm  kind  of  a  travelin' 
show,  singin'  and  packin*  the  news  around  to 


80  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

everybody.  'Course  folks  read  the  paper  and 
hear  about  somebody  gettin'  married,  or  gettin' 
shot  or  leavin'  the  country,  and  then  they  ask 
me  the  how  of  it.  I  been  ramblin'  so  long  that 
I  know  the  pedigrees  of  'most  everybody  down 
this  way. 

* 'Newspapers  is  all  right,  but  folks  get  plumb 
hungry  to  git  their  news  with  human  trimmin's. 
I  recollec'  I  come  mighty  near  gettin'  in  trouble, 
onct.  Steve  had  some  folks  visitin'  down  to  his 
ranch.  They  was  new  to  the  country,  and  seems 
they  locked  horns  with  a  outfit  runnin*  sheep 
just  south  of  Springerville.  Now,  I  hadn't  been 
down  that  way  for  about  six  months,  but  I  had 
heard  of  that  ruckus.  So  after  Steve  lets  me 
sing  a  couple  of  songs,  and  I  got  to  feelin'  com- 
fortable with  them  new  folks,  I  set  to  and  tells 
'em  about  the  ruckus  down  near  Springerville. 
I  guess  the  fella  that  told  me  must  'a'  got  his 
reins  crossed,  for  pretty  soon  Steve  starts  to 
laugh  and  turns  to  them  visitors  and  says: 
'How  about  it,  Mr.  Smith?' 

"Now,  Smith  was  the  fella  that  had  the  ruck- 
us, and  I'd  been  tellin'  how  that  sheep  outfit  had 
run  him  out  of  the  country.  He  was  a  young, 
long,  spindlin'  hombre  from  Texas — a  reg'lar 
Whicker-bill,  with  that  drawlin'  kind  of  a  voice 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  81 

that  bosses  and  folks  listen  to.  I  knowed  he  was 
from  Texas  the  minute  I  seen  him,  but  I  sure 
didn't  know  he  was  the  man  I  was  talkin'  about. 

"Everybody  laughed  but  him  and  his  wife. 
I  reckon  she  was  feelin'  her  oats,  visitin'  at  the 
Senator's  house.  I  don't  know  what  she  said 
to  her  husband,  but,  anyhow,  afore  I  left  for  the 
bunk-house  that  evenin',  he  says,  slow  and  easy, 
that  if  I  was  around  there  next  mornin',  he 
would  explain  all  about  that  ruckus  to  me,  when 
the  ladies  weren't  present,  so  I  wouldn't  get  it 
wrong,  next  time.  I  seen  I  had  made  a  mistake 
for  myself,  and  I  didn't  aim  to  make  another,  so 
I  just  kind  of  eased  off  and  faded  away,  bushin* 
down  that  night  a  far  piece  from  Senator  Steve's 
ranch.  I  know  them  Whicker-bills  and  I  didn't 
want  to  tangle  with  any  of  'em." 

"Afraid  you'd  get  shot?"  queried  Bartley, 
laughing. 

"Shot?  Me?  No,  pardner.  I  was  afraid 
that  Texas  gent  would  get  shot.  You  see,  he 
was  married — and  I — ain't." 

Bartley  lay  back  on  his  saddle  and  gazed  up 
at  the  stars.  The  little  fire  had  died  down  to  a, 
dot  of  red.  A  coyote  yelped  in  the  far  dusk. 
Another  coyote  replied.  Cheyenne  rose  and 
threw  some  wood  on  the  fire.  Then  he  stepped 


82  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

down  to  the  water-hole  and  washed  the  plates 
and  cups.  Bartley  could  hear  the  peculiar 
thumping  sound  of  hobbled  horses  moving  about 
on  the  mesa.  Cheyenne  returned  to  the  fire, 
picked  up  his  bed-roll,  and  marched  off  into  the 
bushes.  Bartley  wondered  why  he  should  take 
the  trouble  to  move  his  bed-roll  such  a  distance 
from  the  water-hole. 

"Pack  your  saddle  and  blanket  over,  when  you 
feel  like  turnin'  in,"  said  Cheyenne.  "And  you 
might  throw  some  dirt  on  that  fire.  I  ain't  lookin' 
for  visitors  down  this  way,  but  you  can't  tell." 

Bartley  carried  his  saddle  out  to  the  distant 
clump  of  junipers. 

"Just  shed  your  coat  and  boots  and  turn  in," 
invited  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  was  not  sleepy,  and  for  a  long  time  he 
lay  gazing  up  at  the  stars.  Presently  he  heard 
Cheyenne  snore.  The  Big  Dipper  grew  dim. 
Then  a  coyote  yelped — a,  shrill  cadence  of  mock- 
ing laughter.  "I  wonder  what  the  joke  is?" 
Bartley  thought  drowsily. 

Sometime  during  the  night  he  was  awakened 
by  the  tramping  of  horses,  a  sound  that  ran 
along  the  ground  and  diminished  in  the  distance. 

Cheyenne  was  sitting  up.  He  touched  Bart- 
ley. "Five  or  six  of  'em,"  whispered  Cheyenne. 


AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  83 

"Our  horses?" 

"Too  many.     Mebby  some  strays." 

"Or  cowboys,"  suggested  Hartley. 

"Night-ridin'  ain't  so  popular  out  here." 

Bartley  turned  over  and  fell  asleep.  It 
seemed  but  a  moment  later  that  he  was  wide 
awake  and  Cheyenne  was  standing  over  him. 
It  was  daylight. 

"They  got  our  bosses,"  said  Cheyenne. 

"Who?" 

"I  dunno." 

"What?  Our  horses?  Great  Scott,  how  far 
is  it  to  Senator  Brown's  ranch?" 

"About  twenty-five  miles,  by  road.  I  know 
a  short  cut. 

Bartley  jumped  up  and  pulled  on  his  boots. 
From  the  far  hills  came  the  faint  yelp  of  a 
coyote,  shrill  and  derisive. 

"The  joke  is  on  us,"  said  Bartley. 

"This  here  ain't  no  joke,"  stated  Cheyenne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HIGH   HEELS  AND   MOCCASINS 

BARTLEY  suggested  that,  perhaps,  the  horses 
had  strayed. 

Cheyenne  shook  his  head.  "My  bosses  ain't 
leavin'  good  feed,  or  leavin'  me.  They  know 
this  here  country." 

"Perhaps  Dobe  left  for  home  and  the  rest 
followed  him,"  said  Bartley. 

"Nope.     Our  bosses  was  roped  and  led  south." 

Bartley  stared  at  Cheyenne,  whose  usually 
placid  countenance  expressed  indecision  and 
worry.  Cheyenne  seemed  positive  about  the 
missing  horses.  Then  Bartley  saw  an  expres- 
sion in  Cheyenne's  eyes  that  indicated  more 
sternness  of  spirit  than  he  had  given  Cheyenne 
credit  for. 

"Roped  and  led  south,"  reiterated  Cheyenne. 

"How  do  you  know  it?" 

"I  been  scoutin'  around.  The  bunch  that 
rode  by  last  night  was  leadin'  bosses.  I  could 
tell  by  the  way  the  bosses  was  travelin'.  They 
was  goin'  steady.  If  they'd  been  drivin'  our 
h6sses  ahead,  they  would  'a'  gone  faster,  tryin' 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  85 

to  keep  'em  from  turnin'  back.  I  don't  see 
nothin'  around  camp  to  show  who's  been  here." 

'Til  make  a  fire,"  said  Bartley. 

"You  got  the  right  idea.  We  can  eat.  Then 
I  aim  to  look  around." 

Cheyenne  was  over  in  the  bushes  rolling  his 
bed  when  Bartley  called  to  him,  and  he  found 
Bartley  pointing  at  a  pair  of  dice  on  a  flat  rock 
beside  the  fire. 

Cheyenne  stooped  and  picked  up  the  dice. 
"Was  you  rattlin'  the  bones  to  see  if  you  could 
beat  yourself?" 

"I  found  them  here.     Are  they  yours?" 

"Nope.     And  they  weren't  here  last  eveninV 

Cheyenne  turned  and  strode  out  to  the  road 
while  Bartley  made  breakfast.  Cheyenne  was 
gone  a  long  time,  examining  the  tracks  of  horses. 
When  he  returned  he  squatted  down  and  ate. 

Presently  he  rose.  "First  off,  I  thought  they 
might  'a'  been  some  stray  Apaches  or  Cholas. 
But  they  don't  pack  dice.  And  the  bunch  that 
rode  by  last  night  was  ridin'  shod  hosses." 

Bartley  turned  slowly  toward  his  companion. 
"Panhandle?"  he  queried. 

"And  these  here  dice?  Looks  like  it.  It's 
like  him  to  leave  them  dice  for  us  to  play  with 
while  he  trails  south  with  our  stock.  I  reckon 


86  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

it  was  that  Dobe  boss  he  was  after.  But  he 
must  'a'  knowed  who  was  campin'  around  here. 
You  see,  when  Wishful  kind  of  hinted  to  Pan- 
handle to  leave  town,  Panhandle  figured  that 
meant  to  stay  out  of  Antelope  quite  a  spell. 
First  off  he  steals  some  bosses.  Next  thing,  he'll 
sell  'em  or  trade  'em,  down  south  of  here.  He'll 
travel  nights,  mostly." 

"I  can't  see  why  he  should  especially  pick  us 
out  as  his  victims,"  said  Bartley. 

"I  don't  say  he  did.  But  it  would  make  no 
difference  to  him.  He'd  steal  any  man's  stock. 
Only,  I  figure  some  of  his  friends  must  'a'  told 
him  about  you — that  seen  you  ridin'  down  this 
way.  He  would  know  our  camp  would  be  some- 
where near  this  water-hole.  What  kind  of 
matches  you  got  with  you?" 

"Why — this  kind."  And  Bartley  produced  a 
few  blue-top  matches. 

"This  here  is  a  old-timer  sulphur  match,  cut 
square.  It  was  right  here,  by  the  rock.  Some- 
body lit  a  match  and  laid  them  dice  there — sixes 
up.  No  reg'lar  hoss-thief  would  take  that  much 
trouble  to  advertise  himself.  Panhandle  done 
it — -and  he  wanted  me  to  know  he  done  it." 

"You've  had  trouble  with  him  before,  haven't 
you?" 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  87 

"Yes — -and  no  man  can  say  I  ever  trailed  him. 
But  I  never  stepped  out  of  his  way." 

"Then  that  crap  game  in  Antelope  meant 
more  than  an  ordinary  crap  game?"  said 
Bartley. 

"He  had  his  chance,"  stated  Cheyenne. 

"Well,  we're  in  a  fix,"  asserted  Bartley. 

"Yes ;  we're  afoot.  But  we'll  make  it.  And 
right  here  I'm  tellin'  you  that  I  aim  to  shoot  a 
game  of  craps  with  Panhandle,  usin'  these  here 
dice,  that'll  be  fast  and  won't  last  long." 

"How  about  the  law?" 

"The  law  is  all  right,  in  spots.  But  they's  a 
whole  lot  of  country  between  them  spots." 

Cheyenne  cached  the  bed-roll,  saddles,  and 
cooking-outfit  back  in  the  brush,  taking  only  a 
canteen  and  a  little  food.  He  proffered  a  pair  of 
moccasins,  parfleche-soled  and  comfortable,  to 
Bartley. 

"You  wear  these.  Them  new  ridin'-boots'll 
sure  kill  you  dead,  walkin'.  You  can  pack  'em 
along  with  you." 

"How  about  your  feet?" 

"Say,  you  wouldn't  call  me  a  tenderfoot, 
would  you?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"Then  slip  on  them  moccasins.     But  first  I 


88  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

aim  to  make  a  circle  and  see  just  where  they 
caught  up  our  stock." 

Hartley  drew  on  the  moccasins  and,  tying 
his  boots  together,  rolled  them  in  his  blanket. 
Meanwhile,  Cheyenne  circled  the  camp  far  out, 
examining  the  scattered  tracks  of  horses.  When 
he  returned  the  morning  sun  was  beginning  to 
make  itself  felt. 

"I'll  toss  up  to  see  wno  wears  the  moccasins," 
said  Bartley.  "I'm  more  used  to  hiking  than 
you  are."  f 

"Spin  her!" 

As  Bartley  tossed  the  coin,  Cheyenne  called. 
The  half-dollar  dropped  and  stuck  edge-up  in 
the  sand. 

"You  wear  'em  the  first  fifteen  miles  and  then 
we'll  swap,"  said  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  filled  the  canteen  and  scraped  dirt 
over  the  fire.  Cheyenne  took  a  last  look  around, 
and  turned  toward  the  south. 

"You  didn't  say  nothin'  about  headin'  back 
to  Antelope,"  said  Cheyenne. 

"Why,  no.  I  started  out  to  visit  Senator 
Brown's  ranch." 

Cheyenne  laughed.!  "Well,  you're  out  to  see 
the  country,  anyhow.  We'll  see  lots,  to-day." 

Once  more  upon  the  road  Cheyenne's  manner 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  89 

changed.  He  seemed  to  ignore  the  fact  that  he 
was  afoot,  in  country  where  there  was  little 
prospect  of  getting  a  lift  from  a  passing  rancher 
or  freighter.  And  he  said  nothing  about  his 
horses,  Filaree  and  Joshua,  although  Bartley 
knew  that  their  loss  must  have  hit  him  hard. 

A  mile  down  the  road,  and  Cheyenne  was 
singing  his  trail  song,  bow-legging  ahead  as 
though  he  were  entirely  alone  and  indifferent  to 
the  journey: 

Seems  like  I  don't  git  anywhere: 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along! 
But  I'm  leavin'  here  and  I'm  goin*  there, 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along — 

He  stopped  suddenly,  pulled  his  faded  black 
Stetson  over  one  eye,  and  then  stepped  out 
again,  singing  on: 

They  ain't  no  water  and  they  ain't  no  shade : 
They  ain't  no  beer  or  lemonade, 
But  I  reckon  most  like  we'll  make  the  grade 
Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along. 

"That's  the  stuff!"  laughed  Bartley.  "A 
stanza  or  two  of  that  every  few  miles,  and  we'll 
make  the  grade  all  right.  That  last  was  im- 
provised, wasn't  it?" 

"Nope.     Just  naturalized.     I  make  'em  up 


90  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

when  I'm  ridin'  along,  to  kind  of  fit  into  the 
scenery.  Impervisin'  gets  my  wind." 

"Well,  if  you  are  singing  when  we  finish,  you're 
a  wonder,"  stated  Bartley. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  wonder,  all  right!  And  mebby 
I  don't  feel  like  a  plumb  fool,  footin'  it  into 
Steve's  ranch  with  no  bosses  and  no  bed-roll  and 
no  reputation.  And  I  sure  lose  mine  this  trip. 
Why,  folks  all  over  the  country  will  josh  me  to 
death  when  they  hear  Panhandle  Sears  set  me 
afoot  on  the  big  mesa.  I  reckon  I'll  have  to 
kind  of  change  my  route  till  somethin'  happens 
to  make  folks  forget  this  here  bobble. 

Another  five  miles  of  hot  and  monotonous 
plodding,  and  Cheyenne  stopped  and  sat  down. 
He  pulled  off  his  boots. 

Bartley  offered  the  moccasins,  but  Cheyenne 
waved  the  offer  aside. 

"Just  eoolin'  my  feet,"  he  explained.  "It 
ain't  so  much  the  kind  of  boots,  because  these 
fit.  It's  scaldin'  your  feet  that  throws  you." 

They  smoked  and  drank  from  the  canteen. 
Five  minutes'  rest,  and  they  were  on  the  road 
again.  The  big  mesa  reached  on  and  on  toward 
the  south,  seemingly  limitless,  without  sign  of 
fence  or  civilization  save  for  the  narrow  road 
that  swung  over  each  slight,  rounded  rise  and 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  91 

ran  away  into  the  distance,  narrowing  to  a  gray 
line  that  disappeared  in  space. 

Occasionally  singing,  Cheyenne  strode  along, 
Bartley  striding  beside  him. 

"You  got  a  stride  like  a  unbroke  yearlin',"  said 
Cheyenne,  as  Bartley  unconsciously  drew  ahead. 

Bartley  stopped  and  turned  into  step  as 
Cheyenne  caught  up.  He  held  himself  to  a 
slower  pace,  realizing  that,  while  his  companion 
could  have  outridden  him  by  days  and  miles,  the 
other  was  not  used  to  walking. 

As  they  topped  a  low  rise  a  coyote  sprang  up 
and  floated  away.  Bartley  flinched  as  Cheyenne 
whipped  up  his  gun  and  fired.  The  coyote  jack- 
knifed  and  lay  still.  Cheyenne  punched  the 
empty  shell  from  his  gun,  slipped  in  a  cartridge, 
and  strode  on. 

"Pretty  fast  work,"  remarked  Bartley. 

"Huh!  I  just  thro  wed  down  on  him  to  see  if 
I  was  gettin'  slow." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  could  shoot  like  that, 
I  wouldn't  let  any  man  back  me  down,"  said 
Bartley. 

"Mebby  so.  But  you're  wrong,  old-timer. 
Bein'  fast  with  a  gun  is  just  like  advertisin'  for 
the  coroner.  Me,  I'm  plumb  peaceful." 

A  few  miles  farther  along  they  nooned  in 


92  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  shade  of  a  pinon.  When  they  started  down 
the  road  again,  Bartley  noticed  that  Cheyenne 
limped  slightly.  But  Cheyenne  still  refused  to 
put  on  the  moccasins.  Bartley  argued  that  his 
own  feet  were  getting  tender.  He  was  unaccus- 
tomed to  moccasins.  Cheyenne  turned  this  argu- 
ment aside  by  singing  a  stanza  of  his  trail  song. 

Also,  incidentally,  Cheyenne  had  been  keep- 
ing his  eye  on  the  horse-tracks;  and  just  before 
they  left  the  main  road  taking  a  short  cut,  he 
pointed  to  them.  "There's  Filaree's  tracks,  and 
there's  Joshua's.  Your  hoss  has  been  travelin' 
over  here,  on  the  edge.  Them  hoss-thieves 
figure  to  hit  into  the  White  Hills  and  cut  down 
through  the  Apache  forest,  most  like." 

"Will  they  sell  the  horses?" 

"Yes.  Or  trade  'em  for  whiskey.  Panhandle's 
got  friends  up  in  them  hills." 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  ranch?"  queried  Bartley. 

"We  done  reached  her.  We're  on  Steve's 
ranch,  right  now.  It's  about  five  miles  from 
that  first  fence  over  there  to  his  house,  by  trail. 
It's  fifteen  by  road." 

"Then  here  is  where  you  take  the  moccasins." 

"Nope.  My  feet  are  so  swelled  you  couldn't 
start  my  boots  with  a  fence  stretcher.  They's  no 
use  both  of  us  gettin'  cripped  up." 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  93 

Hartley's  own  feet  ached  from  the  constant 
bruising  of  pebbles. 

Presently  Cheyenne  dropped  back  and  asked 
Hartley  to  set  the  pace. 

"I'll  just  tie  to  your  shadow,"  said  Cheyenne. 
"Keeps  me  interested.  When  I'm  drillin' 
along  ahead  I  can't  think  of  nothin'  but  my 
feet." 

Because  there  was  now  no  road  and  scarcely 
a  trail,  Hartley  began  to  choose  his  footing, 
dodging  the  rougher  places.  The  muscles  of  his 
calves  ached  under  the  unaccustomed  strain  of 
walking  without  heels.  Cheyenne  dogged  along 
behind,  suffering  keenly  from  blistered  feet, 
but  centering  his  attention  on  Hartley's  bobbing 
shadow.  They  had  made  about  two  miles 
across  country  when  the  faint  trail  ran  round 
a  butte  and  dipped  into  a  shallow  arroyo. 

The  arroyo  deepened  to  a  gulch,  narrow  and 
rocky.  Up  the  gulch  a  few  hundred  yards  they 
came  suddenly  upon  a  bunch  of  Hereford  cattle 
headed  by  a  magnificent  bull.  The  trail  ran 
in  the  bottom  of  the  gulch.  On  either  side  the 
walls  were  steep  and  rocky.  Angling  junipers 
stuck  out  from  the  walls  in  occasional  dots  of 
green. 

"That   ole    white-face    sure   looks    hostile," 


94  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Cheyenne  remarked.  "Git  along,  you  ole 
Mormon;  curl  your  tail  and  drift." 

Cheyenne  heaved  a  stone  which  took  the 
bull  fairly  between  the  eyes.  The  bull  shook 
his  head  and  snapped  his  tail,  but  did  not  move. 
The  cattle  behind  the  bull  stared  blandly  at 
the  invaders  of  their  domain.  The  bull,  being 
an  aristocrat,  gave  warning  of  his  intent  to 
charge  by  shaking  his  head  and  bellowing.  Then 
he  charged. 

Cheyenne  stooped  for  another  stone,  but 
Bartley  had  no  intention  of  playing  ping-pong 
with  a  roaring  red  avalanche.  Bartley  made  for 
the  side  of  the  gulch  and,  catching  hold  of  the 
bole  of  a  juniper,  drew  himself  up.  Cheyenne 
stood  to  his  guns,  shied  a  third  stone,  scored  a 
bull's-eye,  and  then  decided  to  evacuate  in  favor 
of  the  enemy.  His  feet  were  sore,  but  he  man- 
aged to  keep  a  good  three  jumps  ahead  of  the 
bull,  up  the  precipitous  bank  of  the  gulch. 
There  was  no  time  to  swing  into  the  tree  where 
Bartley  had  taken  refuge,  so  Cheyenne  backed 
into  a  shallow  depression  beneath  the  roots  of 
the  juniper. 

The  bull  shook  his  head  and  butted  at  Chey- 
enne. Cheyenne  slapped  the  bull's  nose  with  his 
hat.  The  bull  backed  part-way  down  the  grade, 


HIGH  HEELS  AND  MOCCASINS  95 

snapped  his  tail,  and  bellowed.  Up  the  grade 
he  charged  again.  He  could  not  quite  reach 
Cheyenne,  who  slapped  at  the  bull  with  his  hat 
and  spake  eloquently. 

Bartley,  clinging  to  his  precarious  perch,  gazed 
down  upon  the  scene,  wondering  if  he  had  not 
better  take  a  shot  at  the  bull.  "Shall  I  let  him 
have  it?"  he  queried. 

"Have  what?"  came  the  muffled  voice  of 
Cheyenne.  "He's  'most  got  what  he's  after, 
right  now." 

"Shall  I  shoot  him?" 

"Hell,  no!  No  use  beefin'  twelve  hundred 
dollars'  worth  of  meat.  We  don't  need  that 
much." 

"Look  out!  He's  coming  again!"  called 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne  had  suddenly  poked  his  head  out  of 
the  shallow  cave.  The  bull  charged,  backed 
down,  and  amused  himself  by  tossing  dirt  over 
his  shoulders  and  grumbling  like  distant  thunder. 

"Perhaps  if  you  stay  in  that  cave  and  don't 
show  yourself,  he'll  leave,"  suggested  Bartley. 

"Stay  no  thin' !"  answered  Cheyenne.  "There's 
a  rattler  in  this  here  cave.  I  can  hear  him 
singin'.  I'm  comin'  out,  right  now!" 

Bartley  leaned  forward  and  glanced  down. 


96  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

The  branch  on  which  he  was  straddled  snapped. 

"Look  out  below!"  he  shouted  as  he  felt  him- 
self going. 

Hartley's  surprising  evolution  was  too  much 
for  his  majesty  the  bull,  who  whirled  and  gal- 
loped clumsily  down  the  slope.  Bartley  rolled 
to  the  bottom,  still  holding  to  a  broken  branch 
of  the  tree.  Cheyenne  was  also  at  the  bottom 
of  the  gulch.  The  bull  was  trotting  heavily 
toward  his  herd. 

"Is  there  anything  hooked  to  the  back  of  my 
jeans?"  queried  Cheyenne. 

"No.    They're  torn;   that's  all." 

"Huh!  I  thought  mebby  that  ole  snake  had 
hooked  on  to  my  jeans.  He  sounded  right  mad, 
singin'  lively,  back  in  there.  My  laigs  feel  kind 
of  limp,  right  now." 

Cheyenne  felt  of  his  torn  overalls,  shook  his 
head,  and  then  a  slow  smile  illumined  his  face. 
"How  do  you  like  this  here  country,  anyhow?" 

"Great!"  said  Bartley. 


CHAPTER   IX 

AT  THE  BOX-S 

WHEN  they  emerged  from  the  western  end  of  the 
gulch,  they  paused  to  rest.  Not  over  a  half- 
mile  south  stood  the  ranch-house,  just  back  of  a 
row  of  giant  cottonwoods. 

Cheyenne  pointed  out  the  stables,  corrals,  and 
bunk-house.  "A  mighty  neat  little  outfit,"  he 
remarked,  as  they  started  on  again. 

"Little?" 

"Senator  Steve's  only  got  about  sixty  thou- 
sand acres  under  fence." 

"Then  I'd  like  to  see  a  big  ranch,"  laughed 
Bartley. 

"You  can't.  They  ain't  nothin'  to  see  more'n 
you  see  right  now.  Why,  I  know  a  outfit  down 
in  Texas  that  would  call  this  here  ranch  their 
north  pasture — and  they  got  three  more  about 
the  same  size,  besides  the  regular  range.  But 
standin'  in  any  one  place  you  can't  see  any  more 
than  you  do  right  now.  Steve  just  keeps  up 
this  here  ranch  so  he  can  have  elbow-room. 
Yonder  comes  one  of  his  boys.  Reckon  he 


seen  us." 


98  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

A  rider  had  just  reined  his  horse  round  and 
was  loping  toward  them. 

"He  seen  we  was  afoot/'  said  Cheyenne. 

"Mighty  decent  of  him—"  began  Bartley, 
but  Cheyenne  waved  the  suggestion  aside. 
"Decent  nothin'!  A  man  afoot  looks  as  queer 
to  a  waddie  as  we  did  to  that  ole  bull." 

The  puncher  loped  up,  recognized  Cheyenne, 
nodded  to  Bartley,  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 
Cheyenne  made  no  explanation  of  their  plight, 
so  the  puncher  simply  turned  back  and  loped 
toward  the  ranch-house. 

k  "Just  steppin'  over  to  tell  Steve  we're  here," 
said  Cheyenne,  as  Bartley's  face  expressed 
astonishment. 

They  plodded  on,  came  to  a  gate,  limped 
down  a  long  lane,  came  to  another  gate,  and 
there  Senator  Steve  met  them. 

"I'd  'a'  sent  a  man  with  a  buckboard  if  I  had 
known  you  planned  to  walk  over  from  Ante- 
lope," he  asserted,  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

Cheyenne  frowned  prodigiously.  "Steve,"  he 
said  slowly,  "you  can  lovin'ly  and  trustfully  go 
plumb  to  hell!" 

Cheyenne  turned  and  limped  slowly  toward 
the  bunk-house. 

Mrs.  Brown  welcomed  Bartley  as  the  Senator 


AT  THE  BOX-S  99 

ushered  him  into  the  living-room.  The  Senator 
half -filled  a  tumbler  from  a  cold,  dark  bottle  and 
handed  it  to  Hartley. 

"  'Green  River,'  "  he  said. 

"Mrs.  Brown,"  said  Bartley  as  he  bowed. 

Then  the  Senator  escorted  Bartley  to  the  bath- 
room. The  tub  was  already  filled  with  steaming 
water.  A  row  of  snow-white  towels  hung  on  the 
rack.  The  Senator  waved  his  hand  and,  step- 
ping out,  closed  the  door. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  knocked  at  the  bath- 
room door.  "There's  a  spare  razor  in  the  cab- 
inet, and  all  the  fixings.  And  when  you're 
ready  there's  a  pair  of  clean  socks  on  the  door- 
knob." 

Bartley  heard  the  Senator's  heavy,  deliberate 
step  as  he  passed  down  the  hallway. 

"A  little  'Green  River,'  a  hot  bath,  and  clean 
socks,"  murmured  Bartley.  "Things  might  be 


worse." 


His  tired  muscles  relaxed  under  the  beneficent 
warmth  of  the  bath.  He  shaved,  dressed,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  hall.  He  sniffed.  "Chick- 
en!" he  murmured  soulfully. 

Mrs.  Senator  Brown  was  supervising  the 
cooking  of  a  dinner  that  Bartley  never  forgot. 
Boiled  chicken,  dumplings,  rich  gravy,  mashed 


100  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

potatoes,  creamed  carrots,  sliced  tomatoes — to 
begin  with.  And  then  the  pie!  Bartley  fur- 
nished the  appetite. 

But  that  was  not  until  after  the  Senator  had 
returned  from  the  bunk-house.  He  had  seen  to 
it  that  Cheyenne  had  had  a  bucket  of  hot  water, 
soap,  and  towels  and  grease  for  his  sore  feet. 
In  direct  and  effectual  kindliness,  without  ob- 
viously expressed  sympathy,  the  Westerner  is 
peculiarly  supreme. 

Back  in  the  living-room  Bartley  made  him- 
self comfortable,  admiring  the  generous  propor- 
tions of  the  house,  the  choice  Indian  blankets, 
the  wide  fireplace,  and  the  general  solidity  of 
everything,  which  reflected  the  personality  of 
his  hosts. 

Presently  the  Senator  came  in.  "Cheyenne 
tells  me  that  somebody  set  you  afoot,  down  at 
the  water-hole." 

"Did  he  also  tell  you  about  your  bull?" 

"No!  Is  that  how  he  came  to  tear  his 
jeans?" 

Bartley  nodded.  And  he  told  the  Senator  of 
their  recent  experience  in  the  gulch. 

The  Senator  chuckled.  "Don't  say  a  word 
to  Mrs.  Brown  about  it.  I'll  have  Cheyenne 
in,  after  dinner,  and  sweat  it  out  of  him. 


AT  THE  BOX-S  VJ1 

You  see,  Cheyenne  won't  eat  with  us.  He 
always  eats  with  the  boys.  No  use  asking 
him  to  eat  in  here.  And,  say,  Bartley,  we've 
got  a  little  surprise  for  you.  One  of  my 
boys  caught  up  your  horse,  old  Dobe.  Dobe 
was  dragging  a  rope.  Looks  like  he  broke 
away  from  some  one.  I  had  him  turned 
into  the  corral.  Dobe  was  raised  on  this 
range." 

"Broke  loose  and  came  back!'*  exclaimed 
Bartley.  "That's  good  news,  Senator.  I  like 
that  horse." 

"But  Cheyenne  is  out  of  luck,"  said  the 
Senator.  "He  thought  more  of  those  horses, 
Filaree  and  Joshua,  than  he  did  of  anything  on 
earth.  I'll  send  one  of  the  boys  back  to  the 
water-hole  to-morrow,  for  your  saddles  and  out- 
fit. But  now  you're  here,  how  do  you  like  the 
country?" 

"Almost  as  much  as  I  like  some  of  the  people 
living  in  it,"  stated  Bartley. 

"Not  including  Panhandle  Sears,  eh?" 

"I'm  pretty  well  fed  up  on  walking,"  and 
Bartley  smiled. 

"Sears  is  a  worthless  hombre,"  stated  the 
Senator.  "He's  one  of  a  gang  that  steal  stock, 
and  generally  live  by  their  wits  and  never  seem 


102  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

to  get  caught.  But  he  made  a  big  mistake  when 
he  lifted  Cheyenne's  horses.  Cheyenne  already 
has  a  grievance  against  Sears.  Some  day 
Cheyenne  will  open  up — and  that  will  be  the  last 
of  Mr.  Sears.0 

"I  had  an  idea  there  was  something  like  that 
in  the  wind/'  said  Bartley.  "Cheyenne  hasn't 
said  much  about  Sears,  but  I  was  present  at  that 
crap  game. 

The  Senator  chuckled.  "I  heard  about  it. 
Heard  you  offered  to  take  on  Sears  if  he  would 
put  his  gun  on  the  table." 

Bartley  flushed.     "I  must  have  been  excited." 

The  Senator  leaned  forward  in  his  big,  easy- 
chair.  "Cheyenne  wants  me  to  let  him  take  a 
couple  of  horses  to  trail  Panhandle.  And,  judg- 
ing from  what  Cheyenne  said,  he  thinks  you  are 
going  along  with  him.  There's  lots  of  country 
right  round  here  to  see,  without  taking  any  un- 
necessary risks." 

"I  understand,"  said  Bartley. 

"And  this  is  your  headquarters,  as  long  as  you 
want  to  stay,"  continued  the  Senator. 

"Thank  you.  It's  a  big  temptation  to  stay, 
Senator." 

"How?" 

"Well,  it  was  rather  understood,  without  any- 


AT  THE  BOX-S  103 

thing  being  said,  that  I  would  help  Cheyenne 
find  his  horses  and  mine.  Dobe  came  back; 
but  that  hardly  excuses  me  from  going  with 
Cheyenne." 

"But  your  horse  is  here;  and  you  seem  to  be 
in  pretty  fair  health,  right  now." 

"I  appreciate  the  hint,  Senator." 

"But  you  don't  agree  with  me  a  whole 
lot." 

"Well,  not  quite.  Chance  rather  chucked  us 
together,  Cheyenne  and  me,  and  I  think  I'll 
travel  with  him  for  a  while.  I  like  to  hear  him 
sing." 

"He  likes  to  hear  h?^t  sing!"  scoffed  the 
Senator,  frowning.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair, 
blew  smoke-rings,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  and 
presently  rose.  "Bartley,  I  see  that  you're  set 
on  chousin'  around  the  country  with  that 
warbling  waddie — -just  to  hear  him  sing,  as  you 
say.  /  say  you're  a  dam'  fool. 

"But  you're  the  kind  of  a  dam'  fool  I  want  to 
shake  hands  with.  You  aren't  excited  and 
you  don't  play  to  the  gallery;  so  if  there's  any- 
thing you  wanton  this  ranch,  from  a  posse  to  a 
pack-outfit,  it's  yours.  And  if  either  of  you  get 
Sears,  I'll  sure  chip  in  my  share  to  buy  his  head- 
stone." 


104  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I  wouldn't  have  it  inscribed  until  we  get 
back,"  laughed  Bartley. 

"No;  I  don't  think  I  will.  Trailin'  horse- 
thieves  on  their  own  stamping  ground  ain't  what 
an  insurance  company  would  call  a  good  risk." 


CHAPTER  X 

TO  TRY  HIM   OUT 

Two  days  later  Cheyenne  was  able  to  get  his 
feet  into  his  boots,  but  even  then  he  walked  as 
though  he  did  not  care  to  let  his  left  foot  know 
what  his  right  foot  was  doing.  Lon  Pelly,  just 
in  from  a  ride  out  to  the  line  shack,  remarked  to 
the  boys  in  the  bunk-house  that  Cheyenne 
walked  as  though  his  brains  were  in  his  feet  and 
he  didn't  want  to  get  stone  bruises  stepping  on 
them. 

Cheyenne  made  no  immediate  retort,  but  later 
he  delivered  himself  of  a  new  stanza  of  his  trail 
song,  wherein  the  first  line  ended  with  "Pelly" 
followed  by  the  rhymed  assertion  that  the  gen- 
tleman who  bore  that  peculiar  name  had  slivers 
in  his  anatomy  due  to  a  fondness  for  leaning 
against  the  bar  of  the  Blue  Front  Saloon. 

The  boys  were  mightily  pleased  with  the 
stanza,  and  they  also  improvised  until,  according 
to  their  versions,  Long  Lon  bore  a  marked 
resemblance  to  a  porcupine.  Lon,  being  a  real 
person,  felt  that  Cheyenne's  retaliation  was 


106  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

just.  Moreover,  Lon,  who  never  did  anything 
hastily,  let  it  be  known  casually  that  he  had  seen 
three  riders  west  of  the  line  shack  some  two  days 
past,  and  that  the  riders  were  leading  two  horses, 
a  buckskin  and  $L  gray.  They  were  too  far  away 
to  be  distinguished  absolutely,  but  he  could  tell 
the  color  of  the  horses. 

"Panhandle  ?"  queried  a  puncher. 

"And  two  riders  with  him,"  said  Long  Lon. 

"Goin'  to  trail  him,  Cheyenne?"  came  pres- 
ently. 

"That's  me." 

"Then  let's  pass  the  hat,"  suggested  the  first 
speaker. 

"Wait!"  said  Cheyenne,  drawing  a  pair  of  dice 
from  his  pocket.  "Somehow,  and  sometime,  I 
aim  to  shoot  Panhandle  a  little  game.  Then 
you  guys  can  pass  the  hat  for  the  loser.  Pan- 
handle left  them  dice  on  the  flat  rock,  by  the 
water-hole.  My  pardner,  Hartley,  found  them." 

"Kind  of  sign  talk  that  Pan  pulled  one  on 
you,"  said  Lon  Pelly. 

"He  sure  left  his  brains  behind  him  when  he 
left  them  dice,"  asserted  Cheyenne.  "I  sus- 
picioned  that  it  was  him — -but  the  dice  told  me, 
plain." 

"So  you  figure  to  walk  up  to  Pan  and  invite 


TO  TRY  HIM  OUT  107 

him  to  shoot  a  little  game,  when  you  meet  up 
with  him?"  queried  a  puncher. 

"That's  me." 

"The  tenderfoot" — -he  referred  to  Hartley — 
"is  he  goin'  along  with  you?" 

"He  ain't  so  tender  as  you  might  think," 
said  Cheyenne.  "He's  green,  but  not  so  dam' 
tender." 

"Well,  it's  right  sad.  He  looks  like  a  pretty 
decent  hombre." 

"What's  sad?"  queried  Cheyenne  belliger- 
ently. 

"Why,  gettin'  that  tenderfoot  all  shot  up, 
trailin*  a  couple  of  twenty-dollar  cayuses.  They 
ain't  worth  it." 

"They  ain't,  eh?" 

"Course,  they  make  a  right  good  audience, 
when  you're  singin'.  They  do  all  the  listenin'," 
said  another  puncher. 

"Huh!  They  ain't  one  of  you  got  a  boss  that 
can  listen  to  you,  without  blushin'.  You  fellas 
think  you're  a  hard-ridin' — " 

"Ridin'  beats  walkin',"  suggested  Long 
Lon. 

"Keep  a-joshin'.  I  like  it.  Shows  how  much 
you  don't  know.  I — hello,  Mr.  Bartley !  Shake 
hands  with  Lon  Pelly — but  I  guess  you  met 


108  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

him,  over  to  Antelope.  You  needn't  to  mind 
the  rest  of  these  guys.  They're  harmless." 

"I  don't  want  to  interrupt — "  began  Bartley. 

"Set  right  in !"  they  invited  in  chorus.  "We're 
just  listenin'  to  Cheyenne  preachin'  his  own 
funeral  sermon." 

Bartley  seated  himself  in  the  doorway  of 
the  bunk-house.  The  joshing  ceased.  Chey- 
enne, who  could  never  keep  his  hands  still,  toyed 
with  the  dice.  Presently  one  of  the  boys  sug- 
gested that  Cheyenne  show  them  some  fancy 
work  with  a  six-gun — '"just  to  keep  your  wrist 
limber,"  he  concluded. 

Cheyenne  shook  iiis  head.  But,  when  Bartley 
intimated  that  he  would  like  to  see  Cheyenne 
shoot,  Cheyenne  rose. 

"All  right.  I'll  shoot  any  fella  here  for  ten 
bucks — him  to  name  the  target." 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  a  puncher.  "We  ain't 
givin'  our  dough  away,  just  to  git  rid  of  it." 

"And  right  recent  they  was  talkin'  big,"  said 
Cheyenne.  "I'll  shoot  the  spot  of  a  playin'-card, 
if  you'll  hold  it,"  he  asserted,  indicating  Bartley. 

The  boys  glanced  at  Bartley  and  then  low- 
ered their  eyes,  wondering  what  the  Easterner 
would  do.  Bartley  felt  that  this  was  a  test  of 
his  nerve,  and,  while  he  didn't  like  the  idea  of 


TO  TRY  HIM  OUT  109 

engaging  in  a  William  Tell  performance  he 
realized  that  Cheyenne  must  have  had  a  reason 
for  choosing  him,  out  of  the  men  present,  and 
that  Cheyenne  knew  his  business. 

"Cheyenne  wants  to  git  out  of  shootin'," 
suggested  a  puncher. 

That  settled  it  with  Bartley.  "He  won't 
disappoint  you,"  he  stated  quietly.  "Give  me 
the  card."  " 

One  of  the  boys  got  up  and  fetched  an  old 
deck  of  cards.  Bartley  chose  the  ace  of  spades. 
Back  of  the  corrals,  with  nothing  but  mesa  in 
sight,  he  took  up  his  position,  while  Cheyenne 
stepped  off  fifteen  paces.  Bartley's  hand 
trembled  a  little.  Cheyenne  noticed  it  and 
turned  to  the  group,  saying  something  that 
made  them  laugh.  Bartley 's  fingers  tensed. 
He  forgot  his  nervousness.  Cheyenne 
whirled  and  shot,  apparently  without  aim. 
Bartley  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  glanced  at 
the  card.  The  black  pip  was  cut  clean  from 
the  center. 

"That's  easy,"  asserted  Cheyenne.  Then  he 
took  a  silver  dollar  from  his  pocket,  laid  it  in 
the  palm  of  his  right  hand,  hung  the  gun,  by 
its  trigger  guard  on  his  right  forefinger,  lowered 
his  hand  and  tossed  the  coin  up.  As  the  coin 


110  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

went  up  the  gun  whirled  over.  Then  came 
the  whiz  of  the  coin  as  it  cut  through  space. 

"About  seventy-five  shots  like  that  and  I'm 
broke,"  laughed  Cheyenne.  "Anybody's  hat 
need  ventilatin' ?" 

"Not  this  child's,"  asserted  Lon  Felly.  "I 
sailed  my  hat  for  him  onct.  It  was  a  twenty- 
dollar  J.  B.,  when  I  sailed  it.  When  it  hit  it  sure 
wouldn't  hold  water.  Six  holes  in  her — and 
three  shots." 

"Six?"  exclaimed  Bartley. 

"The  three  shots  went  clean  through  both 
sides,"  said  Lon. 

Cheyenne  reloaded  his  gun  and  dropped  it  into 
the  holster. 

Later,  Bartley  had  a  talk  with  Cheyenne 
about  the  proposed  trailing  of  the  stolen  horses. 
Panhandle's  name  was  mentioned.  And  the 
name  of  another  man — Sneed.  Cheyenne 
seemed  to  know  just  where  he  would  look,  and 
whom  he  might  expect  to  meet. 

Bartley  and  Cheyenne  were  in  the  living- 
room  that  evening  talking  with  the  Senator 
and  his  wife.  Out  in  the  bunk-house  those 
of  the  boys  who  had  not  left  for  the  line  shack 
were  discussing  horse-thieves  in  general  and 
Panhandle  and  Sneed  in  particular.  Bill 


TO  TRY  HIM  OUT  111 

Smalley,  a  saturnine  member  of  the  outfit,  who 
seldom  said  anything,  and  who  was  a  good  hand 
but  a  surly  one,  made  a  remark. 

"That  there  Cheyenne  is  the  fastest  gun 
artist — and  the  biggest  coward  that  ever  come 
out  of  Wyoming.  Ain't  that  right,  Lon?" 

"I  never  worked  in  Wyoming,"  said  Long  Lon. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PONY   TRACKS 

MRS.  SENATOR  BROWN  did  not  at  all  approve 
of  Hartley's  determination  to  accompany  Chey- 
enne in  search  of  the  stolen  horses.  Late  that 
night,  long  after  Cheyenne  had  ceased  to  sing 
for  the  boys  in  the  bunk-house,  and  while 
Bartley  was  peacefully  slumbering  in  a  com- 
fortable bed,  Mrs.  Brown  took  the  Senator  to 
task  for  not  having  discouraged  the  young 
Easterner  from  attempting  such  a  wild-goose 
chase.  The  Senator,  whose  diameter  made  the 
task  of  removing  his  boots  rather  difficult, 
puffed,  and  tugged  at  a  tight  riding-boot,  but 
said  nothing. 

"Steve!" 

"Yes'm.  I  'most  got  it  off.  Wild-goose 
chase?  Madam,  the  wild  goose  is  a  child  that 
shuns  this  element.  You  mean  ^ild-horse 
chase." 

"That  sort  of  talk  may  amuse  your  con- 
stituents, but  you  are  talking  to  me." 

Off  came  the  stubborn  boot.  The  Senator 
puffed,  and  tugged  at  the  other  boot. 


PONY  TRACKS  113 

"No,  ma'am.  You're  talking  to  me.  There ! 
Now  go  ahead  and  I'll  listen." 

"Why  didn't  you  discourage  Mr.  Hartley's 
idea  of  making  such  a  journey?' 

"I  did,  Nelly.  I  told  him  he  was  a  dam' 
fool." 

Mrs.  Senator  Brown,  who  knew  her  husband's 
capabilities  in  dodging  issues  when  he  was  cor- 
nered,— both  at  home  and  abroad, — peered  at 
him  over  her  glasses.  "What  else  did  you  tell 
him?" 

"Well,  your  honor,"  chuckled  the  Senator,  "I 
also  told  him  he  was  the  kind  of  dam'  fool  I 
liked  to  shat;e  hands  with." 

"I  knew  it !   And  what  else?" 

"I  challenge  the  right  of  the  attorney  for 
the  plaintiff  to  introduce  any  evidence  that 
may—" 

"The  attorney  for  the  defense  may  proceed," 
said  Mrs.  Brown,  smiling. 

"Why,  shucks,  Nelly!  When  you  smile  like 
that — -why,  I  told  Bartley  he  could  have  any- 
thing on  this  ranch  that  would  help  him  get  a 
rope  on  Sears." 

"I  knew  it!" 

"Then  why  did  you  ask  me?" 

Mrs.   Brown  ignored   the  question.      "Very 


114  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

well,  Stephen.  Mr.  Bartley  gave  me  his  sister's 
address,  in  case  anything  happened.  She  is 
his  only  living  relative  and  I'm  going  to  write 
to  her  at  once  and  tell  her  what  her  brother  is 
up  to." 

"And  most  like  she'll  head  right  for  this 
ranch." 

"Well,  suppose  she  does?  If  she  is  anything 
like  her  brother  she  will  be  welcome." 

"You  bet !    Just  leave  that  to  me !" 

"It's  a  shame!"  asserted  Mrs.  Brown. 

"It  is!  With  her  good  looks  and  inexperi- 
ence she'll  sure  need  somebody  to  look  after  her." 

"How  do  you  know  she  is  good-looking?" 

"I  don't.     I  was  just  hoping." 

"I  shall  write,  just  the  same." 

"I  reckon  you  will.     I'm  going  to  bed." 

Just  as  the  sun  rounded  above  the  mesa 
next  morning,  Bartley  stepped  out  to  the  ver- 
anda. He  was  surprised  to  find  the  Senator  up 
and  about,  inspecting  the  details  of  Cheyenne's 
outfit,  for  Cheyenne  had  the  horses  saddled  and 
packed.  Bartley  was  still  more  surprised  to 
find  that  Mrs.  Brown  had  breakfast  ready. 
Evidently  the  good  Senator  and  his  wife  had  a 
decided  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  expedition. 

After  breakfast  the  Senator's  wife  came  out  to 


PONY  TRACKS  115 

the  bunk-house  with  a  mysterious  parcel  which 
she  gave  to  Bartley.     He  sniffed  at  it. 

"Cold  chicken  sandwiches!"  he  said,  smiling 
broadly. 

"And  some  doughnuts.  It  will  save  you 
boys  fussing  with  a  lunch." 

Long  Lon  Pelly  was  also  up  and  ready  to 
start.  The  air  was  still  cool  and  the  horses 
were  a  bit  snuffy.  Lon  mounted  and  rode 
toward  the  west  gate  where  he  waited  for 
Cheyenne  and  Bartley. 

"Now  don't  forget  where  you  live,"  said  the 
Senator  as  Bartley  mounted. 

With  a  cheery  farewell  to  their  hosts,  Chey- 
enne and  Bartley  rode  away.  The  first  warmth 
of  the  sun  touched  them  as  they  headed  into 
the  western  spaces.  Long  Lon  closed  the  big 
gate,  stepped  up  on  his  horse,  and  jogged  along 
beside  them. 

Bartley  felt  as  though  he  had  suddenly 
left  the  world  of  reality  and  was  riding  in  a  sort 
of  morning  dream.  He  could  feel  the  pleasant 
warmth  of  the  sun  on  his  back.  He  sniffed  the 
thin  dust  cast  up  by  the  horses.  On  either  side 
of  him  the  big  mesa  spread  to  the  sky-line. 
Cattle  were  scattered  in  the  brush,  some  of  them 
lying  down,  some  of  them  grazing  indolently. 


116  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Presently  Cheyenne  began  to  sing,  and  his 
singing  seemed  to  fit  into  the  mood  of  the  morn- 
ing. He  ceased,  and  nothing  but  the  faint 
jingle  of  rein  chains  and  the  steady  plod  of  hoofs 
disturbed  the  vast  silence.  A  flicker  of  smoke 
drifted  back  as  Cheyenne  lighted  a  cigarette. 
Long  Lon  drilled  on,  wrapped  in  his  reflections. 
Their  moving  shadows  shortened.  Occasionally 
a  staring-eyed  cow  strayed  directly  in  their  way 
and  stood  until  Long  Lon  struck  his  chaps  with 
his  quirt,  when  the  cow,  swinging  its  head, 
would  whirl  and  bounce  off  to  one  side,  stiff- 
legged  and  ridiculous. 

Bartley  unbuttoned  his  shirt-collar  and  pushed 
back  his  hat.  Far  across  the  mesa  a  dust  devil 
spun  up  and  writhed  away  toward  the  distant 
hills.  As  the  horses  slowed  to  cross  a  sandy 
draw,  Bartley  turned  and  glanced  back.  The 
ranch  buildings — -a  dot  of  white  in  a  clump  of 
green — shimmered  vaguely  in  the  morning  sun- 
light. 

Thus  far,  Bartley  felt  that  he  had  been  leaving 
the  ranch  and  the  cheerful  companionship  of  the 
Senator  and  his  wife.  But  as  Lon  Pelly  reined 
up — it  was  something  like  two  hours  since  they 
had  started — -and  pointed  to  a  cross-trail  leading 
south,  Bartley's  mental  attitude  changed  in- 


PONY  TRACKS  117 

stantly.  Hitherto  he  had  been  leaving  a  pleasant 
habitation.  Now  he  was  going  somewhere.  He 
felt  the  distinction  keenly.  Cheyenne's  verse 
came  back  to  him. 

Seems  like  I  don't  git  anywhere, 

Git  along,  cay  use,  git  along; 
But  we're  leavin'  here  and  we're  goin'  there, 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along — 

"Just  drop  a  line  when  you  get  there/'  said 
Long  Lon  as  he  reined  round  and  set  off  toward 
the  far  western  sky-line.  That  was  his  casual 
farewell. 

Cheyenne  now  turned  directly  toward  the 
south  and  a  range  of  hills  that  marked  the 
boundary  of  the  mesa  level.  Occasionally  he  got 
off  his  horse  and  stooped  to  examine  tracks.  Once 
he  made  a  wide  circle,  leaving  Bartley  to  haze  the 
pack-horse  along.  Slowly  they  drew  nearer  to 
the  hills.  During  the  remainder  of  that  fore- 
noon, Cheyenne  said  nothing,  but  rode,  slouched 
forward,  his  hand  on  the  horn,  his  gaze  on  the 
ground. 

They  nooned  in  the  foothills.  The  horses 
grazed  along  the  edge  of  a  tiny  stream  while 
Cheyenne  and  Bartley  ate  the  cold  chicken 
sandwiches.  In  half  an  hour  they  were  riding 
again,  skirting  the  foothills,  and,  it  seemed  to 


118  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley,  simply  meandering  about  the  country, 
for  now  they  were  headed  west  again. 

Presently  Cheyenne  spoke.  "I  been  makin'  a 
plan." 

"I  didn't  say  a  word,"  laughed  Bartley. 

"You  didn't  need  to.  I  kind  of  got  what  you 
were  thinkin'.  This  here  is  big  country.  When 
you're  ridin'  this  kind  of  country  with  some  fella, 
you  can  read  his  mind  almost  as  good  as  a  horse 
can.  You  was  thinkin'  I  was  kind  of  twisted 
and  didn't  know  which  way  to  head.  Now  take 
that  there  boss,  Joshua.  Plenty  times  I've  rode 
him  up  to  a  fork  in  the  trail,  and  kep'  sayin5 
to  myself,  *  We'll  take  the  right-hand  fork.' 
And  Joshua  always  took  the  fork  I  was  thinkin' 
about.  You  try  it  with  Dobe,  sometime." 

"I  have  read  of  such  things,"  said  Bartley. 

"Well,  I  know  'em.  What  would  you  say  if 
I  was  to  tell  you  that  Joshua  knowed  once 
they  was  a  fella  ridin'  behind  me,  five  miles 
back,  and  out  of  sight — and  told  me,  plain?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything." 

"There's  where  you're  wise.  I  can  talk  to 
you  about  such  things.  But  when  I  try  to  talk 
to  the  boys  like  that,  they  just  josh,  till  I  git 
mad  and  quit.  They  ain't  takin'  me  serious." 

"What  is  your  plan?"  queried  Bartley. 


PONY  TRACKS  119 

Cheyenne  reined  up  and  dismounted.  "Step 
down,  and  take  a  look,"  he  suggested. 

Bartley  dismounted.  Cheyenne  pointed  out 
horse-tracks  on  the  trail  along  the  edge  of  the 
hills. 

"Five  bosses,"  he  asserted.  "Two  of  'em 
is  mine.  That  leaves  three  that  are  carry  in' 
weight.  But  we're  makin'  a  mistake  for  our- 
selves, trailin'  Panhandle  direct.  He  figures 
mebby  I'd  do  that.  I  got  to  outfigure  him.  I 
don't  want  to  git  blowed  out  of  my  saddle  by 
somebody  in  the  brush,  just  waitin'  for  me  to 
ride  up  and  git  shot.  I  got  the  way  he's  headed, 
and  by  to-morrow  mornin'  I'll  know  for  sure.  : 

"If  he'd  been  goin'  to  swing  back,  to  fool  me, 
he'd  'a'  done  it  before  he  hit  the  timber,  up 
yonder.  Once  he  gits  in  them  hills  he'll 
head  straight  south,  for  they  ain't  no  other 
trail  to  ride  on  them  ridges.  But  mebby  he 
cut  along  the  foothills,  first.  I  got  to  make 


sure." 


Late  that  afternoon  and  close  to  the  edge  of 
the  foothills,  Cheyenne  lost  the  tracks.  He 
spent  over  an  hour  finding  them  again.  Bartley 
could  discern  nothing  definite,  even  when  Chey- 
enne pointed  to  a  queer,  blurred  patch  in  some 
loose  earth. 


120  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"It  looks  like  the  imprint  of  some  coarse 
cloth,"  said  Bartley. 

"Gunnysack.  They  pulled  the  shoes  off  my 
hosses  and  sacked  their  feet." 

"How  about  their  own  horses?" 

"They  been  ridin'  hard  ground,  and  the  tracks 
don't  show,  plain.  Panhandle  figured,  when  I 
seen  that  only  the  tracks  of  three  horses  showed, 
I'd  think  he  had  turned  my  hosses  loose  on  the 
big  mesa.  He  stops,  pulls  their  shoes,  sacks 
their  feet,  and  leads  'em  over  ther6.  Whoever 
done  it  was  afoot,  and  steppin'  careful.  Hell,  I 
could  learn  that  yella-bellied  hoss-thief  how  to 
steal  hosses  right,  if  I  was  in  the  business." 

"Looks  like  a  pretty  stiff  drill  up  those  hills," 
remarked  Bartley. 

"That's  why  he  turned,  right  here.  'Tain't 
just  the  stealin*  of  my  hosses  that's  interestin* 
him.  He's  takin'  trouble  to  run  a  whizzer  on 
me — -get  me  guessin'.  Here  is  where  we  quit 
trailin'  him.  I  got  my  plan  workin'  like  a  hen 
draggin'  fence  rails.  We  ain't  goin'  to  trail 
Panhandle.  We're  goin'  to  ride  'round  and 
meet  him." 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Bartley. 

"It  won't  be — -if  I  see  him  first." 


CHAPTER  XII 

JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN 

Two  days  of  riding  toward  the  west,  along  the 
edge  of  the  hills,  and  Bartley  and  Cheyenne 
found  themselves  approaching  the  high  country. 
The  trail  ran  up  a  wide  valley,  on  either  side  of 
which  were  occasional  ranches  reaching  back 
toward  the  slopes.  In  reality  they  were  gradu- 
ally climbing  the  range  on  an  easy  grade  and 
making  good  time. 

Their  course  now  paralleled  the  theoretical 
course  of  Panhandle  and  his  fellows.  Dodg- 
ing the  rugged  land  to  the  south,  Cheyenne  had 
swung  round  in  a  half -circle,  hoping  to  head  off 
Panhandle  on  the  desert  side  of  the  range. 
Since  abandoning  the  tracks  of  the  stolen  horses, 
Cheyenne  had  resumed  his  old  habit  of  singing  as 
he  rode.  He  seemed  to  know  the  name  of  every 
ranch,  and  of  every  person  they  met. 

Once  or  twice  some  acquaintance  expressed 
surprise  that  Cheyenne  did  not  stop  and  spend 
the  night  with  him.  But  Cheyenne  jokingly 
declined  all  invitations,  explaining  to  Bartley 


122  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

that  in  stopping  to  visit  they  would  necessarily 
waste  hours  in  observing  the  formalities  of 
arrival  and  departure,  although  Cheyenne  did 
not  put  it  just  that  way. 

They  found  water  and  plenty  of  feed,  made 
their  camps  early,  broke  camp  early,  and  rode 
steadily.  With  no  visible  incentive  to  keep 
going,  Bartley  lost  his  first  keen  interest  in  the 
hunt,  and  contented  himself  with  listening  to 
Cheyenne's  yarns  about  the  country  and  its  folk, 
or  occasionally  chatting  with  some  wayfarer. 
But  never  once  did  Cheyenne  hint,  to  those 
they  met,  just  why  he  was  riding  south. 

There  were  hours  at  a  stretch,  when  the  going 
was  level,  when  Cheyenne  did  nothing  but  roll 
his  gun,  throw  down  on  different  objects,  toss 
up  his  gun,  and  catch  it  by  the  handle;  and  once 
he  startled  Bartley  by  making  a  quick  fall  from 
the  saddle  and  shooting  from  the  ground. 
Cheyenne  explained  to  Bartley  that  often,  when 
riding  alone,  he  had  spent  hour  after  hour 
figuring  out  the  possibilities  of  gun-play,  till  it 
became  evident  to  the  Easterner  that,  aside  from 
being  naturally  quick,  there  was  a  very  good 
reason  for  Cheyenne's  proficiency  with  the  six- 
gun.  He  practiced  continually.  And  yet, 
thought  Bartley,  one  of  the  Box-S  punchers  had 


JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN  123 

said  that  Cheyenne  had  never  killed  anything 
bigger  than  a  coyote,  and  never  would — inti- 
mating that  he  was  too  good-natured  ever  to 
take  advantage  of  his  own  proficiency  with  a 
gun. 

Bartley  wondered  just  how  things  would  break 
if  they  did  happen  to  meet  Panhandle  unexpect- 
edly. Panhandle  would  no  doubt  dispose  of  the 
stolen  horses  as  soon  as  he  could.  What  excuse 
would  Cheyenne  have  to  call  Panhandle  to 
account?  And  when  it  came  to  a  show-down, 
would  Cheyenne  call  him  to  account? 

Bartley  was  thinking  of  this  when  they  made 
an  early  camp,  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
out.  After  the  horses  were  hobbled  and  the 
packs  arranged,  Bartley  decided  to  experiment 
a  little  with  his  new  Luger  automatic.  Chey- 
enne declined  to  experiment  with  the  gun. 

"It's  a  mean  gat,"  he  asserted,  "and  it's  fast. 
But  I'll  bet  you  a  new  hat  I  can  empty  my  old 
smoke-wagon  quicker  than  you  can  that  pocket 
machine  gun." 

For  the  fun  of  the  thing,  Bartley  took  him  up. 
He  selected  as  target  a  juniper  stump,  and  blazed 
away. 

"I'm  leavin'  the  decision  to  you,"  said  Chey- 
enne, as  he  braced  his  right  arm  against  his 


124  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

body  and  fanned  the  Colt,  emptying  it  before 
Bartley  could  realize  that  he  had  fired  three  shots 
— °and  Cheyenne  had  fired  five. 

"I'll  buy  you  that  hat  when  we  get  to  town," 
laughed  Bartley.  "You  beat  me,  hands  down." 

"Hands  down  is  right,  old-timer.  Fannin* 
a  gun  is  show  stuff,  but  it's  wicked,  at  close 
range." 

Meanwhile,  Bartley  had  been  experimenting 
further  with  the  Luger.  When  he  got  through 
he  had  a  hat  full  of  pieces  and  Cheyenne  was 
staring  at  what  seemed  to  be  the  wreck  of  a 
once  potent  weapon. 

"Why,  you  done  pulled  that  little  lead  sprink- 
ler all  to  bits!"  exclaimed  Cheyenne,  "and  you 
didn't  have  no  tools  to  do  it  with." 

"You  can  take  down  and  assemble  this  gun 
without  tools,"  stated  Bartley.  "All  you  need 
is  your  fingers." 

"But  what  in  Sam  Hill  did  you  pull  her  apart 
for?" 

"Just  to  see  if  I  could  put  her  together  again." 

Cheyenne  scratched  his  head,  and  stepped  over 
to  inspect  the  juniper  stump.  He  stooped, 
whistled,  and  turned  to  Bartley.  "Man,  you 
like  to  sawed  that  stub  in  two.  Why  didn't 
you  say  you  could  shoot?" 


JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN  125 

"I  can't,  in  your  class.  But  tell  me  why  you 
Westerners  always  seem  to  think  it  strange  that 
an  Easterner  can  sit  a  horse  or  shoot  fairly  well? 
Is  it  because  you  consider  that  the  average 
tourist  represents  the  entire  East?" 

"I  dunno.  But,  then,  I've  met  up  with 
Easterners  that  weren't  just  like  you." 

Bartley  was  busy,  assembling  the  Luger,  and 
Cheyenne  was  watching  him,  when  they  glanced 
up  simultaneously.  A  shadow  drifted  between 
them. 

Cheyenne  hesitated  and  then  stepped  forward. 
"I'll  be  dinged  if  it  ain't  Jimmy!  What  you 
doin'  up  here  in  the  brush,  anyhow?" 

The  boy,  who  rode  a  well-mannered  gray 
pony,  kicked  one  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  and 
hooked  his  small  leg  over  the  horn.  He 
nodded  to  Cheyenne,  but  his  interest  was  centered 
on  Bartley  and  the  Luger. 

"It's  Jimmy — -my  boy,"  said  Cheyenne.  "His 
Aunt  Jane  lives  over  yonder,  a  piece." 

"Why,  hello!"  exclaimed  Bartley,  laying  the 
pistol  aside.  And  he  stepped  up  and  shook 
hands  with  the  boy,  who  grinned. 

"How's  the  folks?"  queried  Cheyenne. 

"All  right.  That  there  is  a  Luger  gun,  ain't 
it?" 


126  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Yes,"  said  Bartley.  "Would  you  like  to 
try  it?" 

The  boy  scrambled  down  from  the  saddle. 
"Honest?" 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  say  hello  to  your  dad?" 
queried  Cheyenne. 

"Sure!  Only  I  was  lookin'  at  that  Luger 
gun-" 

Jimmy  shook  hands  perfunctorily  with  his 
father  and  turned  to  Bartley,  expectancy  in  his 
gaze. 

Bartley  reloaded  the  gun  and  handed  it  to  the 
boy,  who  straightaway  selected  the  juniper 
stump  and  blazed  away.  Bartley  watched  him, 
a  sturdy  youngster,  brown-fisted,  blue-eyed,  with 
sandy  hair,  and  dressed  in  jeans  and  a  rowdy — • 
a  miniature  cow-puncher,  even  to  his  walk. 

"Ever  shoot  one  before?"  queried  Bartley  as 
the  boy  gave  back  the  pistol. 

"Nope.  There's  one  like  it,  over  to  the  store 
in  San  Andreas.  It's  in  the  window.  I  never 
got  to  look  at  it  right  close." 

"Try  it  again,"  said  Bartley. 

The  boy  grinned.     "I  reckon  you're  rich?" 

"Why?" 

s  'Cause  you  got  a  heap  of  ca'tridges.     They 
cost  money." 


JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN  127 

"Never  mind.     Go  ahead  and  shoot." 

Jimmy  blazed  away  again  and  ran  to  see  where 
his  bullets  had  hit  the  stump.  "She's  a  pretty 
fair  gun,"  he  said  as  he  handed  it  back.  "But 
I  reckon  I'll  have  to  stick  to  my  ole  twenty-two 
rifle.  She's  gettin'  wore  out,  but  I  can  hit 
things  with  her,  yet.  I  git  rabbits." 

"Now,  mebby  you  got  time  to  tell  us  some- 
thing about  Aunt  Jane  and  Uncle  Frank  and 
Dorry,"  suggested  Cheyenne. 

"Why,  they're  all  right,"  said  the  boy. 
"Why  didn't  you  stop  by  to  our  place  instead  of 
bushin5  way  up  here?" 

Cheyenne  hesitated.  "I  reckon  I'll  be  comin' 
over,"  he  said  finally. 

Bartley  put  the  Luger  away.  The  boy 
turned  to  his  father.  Cheyenne's  face  expressed 
happiness,  yet  Bartley  was  puzzled.  The  boy 
was  not  what  could  be  termed  indifferent  in  any 
sense,  yet  he  had  taken  his  father's  presence 
casually,  showing  no  special  interest  in  their 
meeting.  And  why  had  Cheyenne  never  men- 
tioned the  boy?  Bartley  surmised  that  there 
was  some  good  reason  for  Cheyenne's  silence  on 
that  subject — and  because  it  was  obvious  that 
there  was  a  good  reason,  Bartley  accepted  the 
youngster's  presence  in  a  matter-of-fact  manner, 


128  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

as  though  he  had  known  all  along  that  Chey- 
enne had  a  son.  In  fact,  Cheyenne  had  not 
stopped  to  think  about  it  at  all.  If  he  had,  he 
would  have  reasoned  that  Bartley  had  heard 
about  it.  Almost  every  one  in  Arizona  knew 
that  Cheyenne  had  been  married  and  had 
separated  from  his  wife. 

"That  would  be  a  pretty  good  gun  to  git  hoss- 
thieves  with,"  asserted  the  boy,  still  thinking 
of  the  Luger. 

"What  do  you  know  about  hoss-thieves?" 
queried  Cheyenne. 

"You  think  I  didn't  see  you  was  ridin' 
different  bosses!"  said  Jimmy.  "Mebby  you 
think  I  don't  know  where  Josh  and  Filaree  are." 

"You  quit  joshin'  your  dad,"  said  Cheyenne. 

"I  ain't  joshin'  nobody.  Ole  'Clubfoot'  Sneed, 
over  by  the  re'savation's  got  Josh  and  Filaree. 
I  seen  'em  in  his  corral,  yesterday.  I  was  up 
there,  huntin'." 

"Did  you  talk  to  him?"  queried  Cheyenne. 

"Nope.  He  just  come  out  of  his  cabin  an* 
told  me  to  fan  it.  I  wasn't  doin'  nothin'.  He 
said  it  was  against  the  law  to  be  huntin'  up 
there.  Mebby  he  don't  hunt  when  he  feels  like  it !' ' 

"Did  you  tell  Uncle  Frank?" 

"Yep.     Wish  I  hadn't.     He  says  for  me  to 


JIMMY  AND  THE  LUGER  GUN 

stay  away  from  the  high  country — and  not  to 
ride  by  Sneed's  place  any  more." 

Cheyenne  turned  to  Hartley.  "I  done  made 
one  guess  right,"  he  said. 

"You  goin'  to  kill  Sneed?"  queried  young 
Jim  enthusiastically. 

"Nobody's  goin'  to  get  killed.  But  I  aim  to 
git  my  hosses." 

Cheyenne  turned  to  Jimmy.  "You  ride  over 
and  tell  Uncle  Frank  and  Aunt  Jane  that  me 
and  Mr.  Bartley'll  be  over  after  we  eat." 

"Will  you  sing  that  'Git  Along'  song  for  me, 
dad?" 

"You  bet!" 

"But  why  don't  you  come  over  and  eat  to  our 
place?  You  always  stop  by,  every  time  you 
ride  down  this  way,"  said  Jimmy. 

"You  ride  right  along,  like  I  told  you,  or  you'll 
be  late  for  your  supper." 

Little  Jim  climbed  into  the  saddle,  and,  turn- 
ing to  cast  a  lingering  and  hopeful  glance  at 
Bartley, — a,  glance  which  suggested  the  possi- 
bilities of  further  practice  with  the  Luger  gun, — • 
he  rode  away,  a  manful  figure,  despite  his  size. 

"They're  bringin'  my  kid  up  right,"  said 
Cheyenne,  as  though  in  explanation  of  some- 
thing about  which  he  did  not  care  to  talk.1 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AT  AUNT  JANE'S 

AUNT  JANE  LAWRENCE  was  popular  with  the 
young  folks  of  the  district,  not  alone  because 
she  was  a  good  cook,  but  because  she  was  a  sort 
of  foster  mother  to  the  entire  community.  The 
young  ladies  of  the  community  brought  to  Aunt 
Jane  their  old  hats  and  dresses,  along  with  their 
love  affairs,  petty  quarrels,  and  youthful  long- 
ings. A  clever  woman  at  needlework,  she  was 
often  able  to  remodel  the  hats  and  "turn" 
the  dresses  so  that  they  would  serve  a  second 
season  or  maybe  a  third. 

The  love  affairs,  petty  quarrels,  and  youthful 
longings  were  not  always  so  easy  to  remodel, 
even  when  they  needed  it:  but  Aunt  Jane 
managed  well.  She  had  much  patience  and 
sympathy.  She  knew  the  community,  and  so 
was  often  able  to  help  her  young  friends  without 
conflicting  with  paternal  or  maternal  views. 
Hat-trimming  and  dressmaking  were  really  only 
incidental  to  her  real  purpose  in  life,  which  was 
to  help  young  folks  realize  their  ideals,  when  such 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  131 

ideals  did  not  lead  too  far  from  everyday  respon- 
sibilities. 

Yet,  with  all  her  capabilities,  her  gentle  wis- 
dom, and  her  unobtrusive  sympathy,  she  was 
unable  to  influence  her  Brother  Jim — known  by 
every  one  as  "Cheyenne" — toward  a  settled 
habit  of  life.  So  it  became  her  fondest  desire 
to  see  that  Cheyenne's  boy,  Little  Jim,  should  be 
brought  up  in  a  home  that  he  would  always 
cherish  and  respect.  Aunt  Jane's  husband, 
Frank  Lawrence,  had  no  patience  with  Chey- 
enne's aimless  meanderings.  Frank  Lawrence 
was  a  hard-working,  silent  nonentity.  Aunt 
Jane  was  the  real  manager  of  the  ranch,  and 
incidentally  of  Little  Jim,  and  her  husband  was 
more  than  content  that  it  should  be  so. 

Occasionally  Aunt  Jane  gave  a  dance  at  her 
home.  The  young  folks  of  the  valley  came,  had 
a  jolly  time,  and  departed,  some  of  them  on 
horseback,  some  in  buckboards,  and  one  or  two 
of  the  more  well-to-do  in  that  small  but  aggres- 
sive vehicle  which  has  since  become  a  universal 
odor  in  the  nostrils  of  the  world. 

Little  Jim  detested  these  functions  which 
entailed  his  best  clothes  and  his  best  behavior. 
He  did  not  like  girls,  and  looked  down  with  scorn 
upon  young  men  who  showed  any  preference  for 


132  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  sex  feminine.  He  made  but  two  exceptions 
to  this  hard-baked  rule:  his  Aunt  Jane,  and  her 
young  friend  who  lived  on  the  neighboring 
ranch,  Dorothy.  Little  Jim  called  her  Dorry 
because  it  sounded  like  a  boy's  name.  And 
he  liked  Dorry  because  she  could  ride,  and  shoot 
with  a  twenty-two  rifle  almost  as  well  as  he 
could.  Then,  she  didn't  have  a  beau,  which  was 
the  main  thing.  Once  he  told  her  frankly  that 
if  she  ever  got  a  beau,  he — Jimmy — was  going 
to  quit. 

"Quit  what?"  asked  Dorothy,  smiling. 

Little  Jim  did  not  know  just  what  he  was 
going  to  quit,  but  he  had  imagination. 

"Why,  quit  takin'  you  out  huntin'  and  camp- 
in'  and  showin'  you  how  to  tell  deer  tracks  from 
goat's  tracks — and  everything." 

"But  I  have  a  beau,"  said  Dorothy  teasingly. 

"Who  is  he?"  demanded  Little  Jim. 

"Promise  you  won't  tell?" 

Little  Jim  hesitated.  He  did  not  consider 
it  quite  the  thing  to  promise  a  girl  any- 
thing. But  he  was  curious.  "Uh-huh,"  he 
said. 

"Jimmy  Hastings!"  said  Dorothy,  laughing 
at  his  expression. 

"That  ain't  fair!"   blurted  Little  Jim.     "I 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  133 

ain't  nobody's  beau.     Shucks!     Now  you  gone 
and  spoiled  all  the  fun." 

"I  was  only  teasing  you,  Jimmy."  And  she 
patted  Little  Jim's  tousled  head.  He  wriggled 
away  and  smoothed  down  his  hair. 

"I  can  beat  you  shootin'  at  tin  cans,"  he  said 
suddenly,  to  change  the  subject. 

Shooting  at  tin  cans  was  much  more  interest- 
ing than  talking  about  beaux. 

"I  have  to  help  Aunt  Jane  get  supper," 
said  Dorothy,  who  had  been  invited  to  stay  for 
supper  that  evening.  In  fact,  she  was  often  at 
the  Hastings  ranch,  a  more  than  welcome  guest. 

Jimmy  scowled.  Dorry  was  always  helping 
Aunt  Jane  make  dresses  or  trim  hats,  or  get 
supper.  A  few  minutes  later  Little  Jim  was 
out  back  of  the  barn,  scowling  over  the  sights  of 
his  twenty-two  at  a  tomato  can  a  few  yards 
away.  He  fired  and  punctured  the  can. 

"Plumb  center!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  think 
you're  her  beau,  do  you?  Well,  that's  what  you 
get.  And  if  I  see  you  around  this  here  ranch, 
just  even  lookin'  at  her,  I'll  plug  you  again." 
Jimmy  was  romancing,  with  the  recently  dis- 
cussed subject  of  beaux  in  mind 

When  Little  Jim  informed  the  household  that 
his  father  and  another  man  were  coming  over, 


134  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

that  evening,  Uncle  Frank  asked  who  the 
other  man  was.  Little  Jim  described  Bartley 
and  told  about  the  wonderful  Luger  gun. 

"My  dad  is  huntin'  his  bosses,"  he  said. 
"And  I  know  who's  got  'em!" 

"Was  the  other  man  a  deputy?"  queried 
Uncle  Frank. 

"He  didn't  have  a  badge  on  him.  He  kind 
of  acted  like  everything  was  a  joke — -shootin' 
at  that  stump,  and  everything.  He  wasn't 
mad  at  nobody.  And  he  looked  kind  of  like  a 
dude." 

Little  Jim  meanwhile  amused  himself  by 
trying  to  rope  the  family  cat  with  a  piece  of 
clothesline.  Uncle  Frank,  who  took  everything 
seriously,  asked  Little  Jim  if  he  had  told  his 
father  where  the  horses  were. 

"Sure  I  told  him.  Wouldn't  you?  They're 
dad's  bosses,  Filaree  and  Josh.  I  guess  he'll 
make  ole  Clubfoot  Sneed  give  'ein  back!" 

"You  want  to  be  careful  what  you  say  about 
Mr.  Sneed,  Jimmy.  And  don't  you  go  to  ridin' 
over  that  way  again.  We  aim  to  keep  out  of 
trouble." 

Little  Jim  had  succeeded  in  noosing  the  cat's 
neck.  That  sadly  molested  animal  jumped, 
rolled  over,  and  clawed  at  the  rope,  and  left 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  135 

hurriedly  with  the  bit  of  clothesline  trailing  In 
its  wake. 

"I  got  to  git  that  cat  afore  he  hangs  himself," 
stated  Little  Jim,  diving  out  of  the  house  and 
heading  for  the  barn.  Thus  he  avoided  ac- 
knowledging his  uncle's  command  to  stay  away 
from  Sneed's  place. 

Supper  was  over  and  the  dishes  were  washed 
and  put  away  when  Cheyenne  and  Bartley 
appeared.  Clean-shaven,  his  dark  hair  brushed 
smoothly,  a  small,  dark-blue,  silk  muffler  knot- 
ted loosely  about  his  throat,  and  in  a  new  flannel 
shirt  and  whipcord  riding-breeches — which  he 
wore  under  his  jeans  when  on  the  trail — Bartley 
pretty  well  approximated  Little  Jim's  descrip- 
tion of  him  as  a  dude.  And  the  word  "dude" 
was  commonly  used  rather  to  differentiate  an 
outlander  from '  a  native  than  in  an  exactly 
scornful  sense.  Without  a  vestige  of  self- 
consciousness,  Bartley  made  himself  felt  as  a 
distinct  entity,  physically  fit  and  mentally  alert. 
Cheyenne,  with  his  cow-puncher  gait  and  his 
general  happy-go-lucky  attitude,  furnished  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  trim  and  well-poised 
Easterner.  Dorothy  was  quick  to  appreciate 
this.  She  thought  that  she  rather  liked  Bart- 
ley. He  was  different  from  the  young  men 


136  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

whom  she  knew.  Bartley  was  pleased  with  her 
direct  and  natural  manner  of  answering  his 
many  questions  about  Western  life. 

Presently  he  found  himself  talking  about  his 
old  home  in  Kentucky,  and  the  thorough-bred 
horses  of  the  Blue  Grass.  The  conversation 
drifted  to  books  and  plays,  but  never  once  did 
it  approach  the  subject  of  guns — and  Little  Jim, 
who  had  hoped  that  the  subject  of  horse-thieves 
might  be  broached,  felt  altogether  out  of  the 
running. 

He  waited  patiently,  for  a  while.  Then 
during  a  lull  in  the  talk  he  mentioned  Sneed's 
name. 

"Jimmy!"  reprimanded  his  Uncle  Frank. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

Uncle  Frank  merely  gestured,  significantly. 

Little  Jim  subsided,  frowning,  and  making  a 
face  at  Dorothy,  who  was  smiling  at  him.  It 
seemed  mighty  queer  that,  when  he  "horned 
in,"  his  Aunt  Jane  or  his  uncle  always  said 
"Jimmy!"  in  that  particular  tone.  But  when 
any  of  the  grown-ups  interrupted,  no  one  said 
a  word.  However,  Bartley  was  not  blind  to 
Little  Jim's  attitude  of  forced  silence,  and  pres- 
ently Bartley  mentioned  the  subject  of  guns, 
much  to  Little  Jim's  joy.  Little  Jim  worked 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  137 

round  to  the  subject  of  twenty-two  rifles,  inti- 
mating that  his  own  single-shot  rifle  was  about 
worn  out. 

Uncle  Frank  heard  and  promptly  changed  the 
subject.  Little  Jim  was  disgusted.  A  boy  just 
couldn't  talk  when  other  folks  were  talking,  and 
he  couldn't  talk  when  they  were  not.  What  was 
the  use  of  living,  anyhow,  if  you  had  to  go  around 
without  talking  at  all,  except  when  somebody 
asked  you  if  you  had  forgotten  to  close  the  lane 
gate  and  had  let  the  stock  get  into  the  alfalfa— 
and  you  had  to  say  that  you  had? 

However,  Little  Jim  had  his  revenge.  When 
Aunt  Jane  proffered  apple  pie,  later  in  the 
evening,  Jimmy  prefixed  his  demand  for  a 
second  piece  with  the  statement  that  he  knew 
there  was  another  uncut  pie  in  the  kitchen, 
because  Aunt  Jane  had  said  maybe  his  dad  would 
eat  half  a  one,  and  then  ask  for  more. 

This  gentle  insinuation  brought  forth  a  sharp 
reprimand  from  Uncle  Frank.  But  Jimmy  had 
looked  before  he  leaped. 

"Well,  Aunt  Jane  said  so.  Didn't  you, 
Aunt  Jane?" 

Whereat  every  one  laughed,  including  the 
gentle  Aunt  Jane.  And  Jimmy  got  his  second 
piece  of  pie. 


138  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

After  the  company  had  found  itself,  Uncle 
Frank,  Cheyenne,  and  Bartley  forgathered  out 
on  the  veranda  and  talked  about  the  missing 
horses.  Little  Jim  sat  silently  on  the  steps, 
hoping  that  the  talk  would  swing  round  to 
where  he  could  have  his  say.  If  he  had  not 
discovered  the  missing  horses,  how  would  his 
father  know  where  they  were?  It  did  not  seem 
exactly  fair  to  Little  Jim  that  he  should  be 
ignored  in  the  matter. 

"I'd  just  ride  over  and  talk  with  Sneed," 
suggested  Uncle  Frank. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that,  all  right,"  asserted  Chey- 
enne. 

"But  I'd  go  slow.  You  might  talk  like  your 
stock  had  strayed  and  you  were  looking  for 
them.  Sneed  and  Panhandle  Sears  are  pretty 
thick.  I'd  start  easy,  if  I  was  in  your  boots." 

This  from  the  cautious  Uncle  Frank. 

"But  you'd  go  get  'em,  if  they  happened  to 
be  your  bosses,"  said  Cheyenne.  "You're  always 
tellin'  me  to  step  light  and  go  slow.  I  reckon 
you  expect  me  to  sing  and  laugh  and  josh  and 
take  all  the  grief  that's  comin'  and  forget  it." 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Frank  deliberately.  "If 
they  was  my  bosses,  I'd  ride  over  and  get  'em. 
But  I  can't  step  into  your  tangle.  If  I  did, 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  139 

Sneed  would  just  nacherally  burn  us  out,  some 
night.  There's  only  two  ways  to  handle  a  man 
like  Clubfoot  Sneed:  one  is  to  kill  him,  and  the 
other  is  to  leave  him  alone.  And  it's  got  to  be 
one  or  the  other  when  you  live  as  close  to  the 
hills  as  we  do.  I  aim  to  leave  him  alone,  unless 
he  tries  to  ride  me." 

"Which  means  that  you  kind  of  think  I  ought 
to  let  the  bosses  go,  for  fear  of  gettin'  you  in 
bad." 

Uncle  Frank  shook  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 
Bartley  smoked  a  cigar  and  listened  to  the 
conversation  that  followed.  Called  upon  by 
Uncle  Frank  for  his  opinion,  Bartley  hesitated, 
and  then  said  that,  if  the  horses  were  his,  he 
would  be  tempted  to  go  and  get  them,  regardless 
of  consequences.  Bartley 's  stock  went  up, 
with  Little  Jim,  right  there. 

Cheyenne  turned  to  Uncle  Frank.  "I'm 
ridin'  over  to  Clubfoot's  wikiup  to-morrow 
mornin'.  I'll  git  my  bosses,  or  git  him.  And 
I'm  ridin'  alone." 

Little  Jim,  meanwhile,  had  been  raking  his 
mind  for  an  idea  as  to  how  he  might  attract 
attention.  He  disappeared.  Presently  he  ap- 
peared in  front  of  the  veranda  with  the  end  of  a 
long  rope  in  his  fist.  He  blinked  and  grinned. 


140  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"What's  on  the  other  end  of  that  rope?" 
queried  Uncle  Frank,  immediately  suspicious. 

"Nothin'  but  High-Tail." 

"I  thought  I  told  you  not  to  rope  that  calf," 
said  Uncle  Frank,  rising. 

"I  didn't.  I  jest  held  my  loop  in  front  of 
some  carrots  and  High-Tail  shoves  his  head 
into  it.  Then  I  says,  'Whoosh!'  and  he  jumps 
back — and  I  hung  on." 

"How  in  Sam  Hill  did  you  get  him  here?" 
queried  Uncle  Frank. 

"Jest  held  a  carrot  to  his  nose — and  he 
walked  along  try  in'  to  get  it." 

"Well  you  shake  off  that  loop  and  haze  him 
back  into  the  corral." 

High-Tail,  having  eaten  the  carrot,  decided 
to  go  elsewhere.  He  backed  away  and  blatted. 
Little  Jim  took  a  quick  dally  round  a  veranda 
post.  High-Tail  plunged  and  fought  the  rope. 

"Turn  him  loose!"  cried  Uncle  Frank. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Aunt  Jane,  appear- 
ing in  the  doorway. 

Little  Jim  eased  off  the  dally,  but  clung  to 
the  rope.  High-Tail  whirled  and  started  for 
the  corral.  Little  Jim  set  back  on  his  heels, 
but  Little  Jim  was  a  mere  item  in  High-Tail's 
wild  career  toward  freedom.  A  patter  of  hoofs 


AT  AUNT  JANE'S  141 

in  the  dark,  and  Little  Jim  and  the  calf  dis- 
appeared around  the  corner  of  the  barn. 

Cheyenne  laughed  and  rose,  following  Uncle 
Frank  to  the  corral.  When  they  arrived,  High- 
Tail  had  made  his  third  round  of  the  corral, 
with  Jimmy  still  attached  to  the  rope.  Chey- 
enne managed  to  stop  the  calf  and  throw  off  the 
noose. 

Little  Jim  rose  and  gazed  wildly  around.  He 
was  one  color,  from  head  to  foot — and  it  was  a 
decidedly  local  color.  His  jeans  were  torn  and 
his  cotton  shirt  was  in  rags,  but  his  grit  was 
unsifted. 

"D-didn't  I  hang  to  him,  dad?"  he  inquired 
enthusiastically. 

"You  sure  did!"  said  Cheyenne. 

With  a  pail  of  hot  water,  soap,  and  fresh 
raiment,  Aunt  Jane  undertook  to  make  Little 
Jim's  return  to  the  heart  of  the  family  as  agree- 
able as  possible  to  all  concerned. 

"Isn't  he  hurt?"  queried  Bartley. 

"Not  if  he  doesn't  know  it,"  stated  Cheyenne. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ANOTHER   GAME 

CHEYENNE  knew  enough  about  Sneed,  by  repu- 
tation, to  make  him  cautious.  He  decided  to 
play  ace  for  ace — and,  if  possible,  steal  the 
stolen  horses  from  Sneed.  The  difficulty  was 
to  locate  them  without  being  seen.  Little 
Jim  had  said  the  horses  were  in  Sneed's  corral, 
somewhere  up  in  the  mountain  meadows.  And 
because  Cheyenne  knew  little  about  that  par- 
ticular section  of  the  mountains,  he  rolled  a 
blanket  and  packed  some  provisions  to  see  him 
through.  Bartley  and  he  had  returned  to  their 
camp  after  their  visit  to  the  ranch,  and  next 
morning,  as  Cheyenne  made  preparation  to  ride, 
Bartley  offered  to  go  with  him. 

Cheyenne  dissuaded  Bartley  from  accom- 
panying him,  arguing  that  he  could  travel  faster 
and  more  cautiously  alone.  "One  man  ridin' 
in  to  Sneed's  camp  wouldn't  look  as  suspicious 
as  two,"  said  Cheyenne.  "And  if  I  thought  you 
could  help  any,  I'd  say  to  come  along.  That's 
on  the  square.  Me  and  my  little  old  carbine 
will  make  out,  I  guess." 


ANOTHER  GAME  143 

So  Bartley,  somewhat  against  his  inclination, 
stayed  in  camp,  with  the  understanding  that, 
if  Cheyenne  did  not  return  in  two  days,  he  was 
to  report  the  circumstance  to  the  authorities  in 
San  Andreas,  the  principal  town  of  the  valley. 

Meanwhile,  the  regular  routine  prevailed  at 
the  Lawrence  ranch.  Uncle  Frank  had  the 
irrigation  plant  to  look  after;  and  Aunt  Jane 
was  immersed  in  the  endless  occupation  of 
housekeeping.  Little  Jim  had  his  regular  light 
tasks  to  attend  to,  and  that  morning  he  made 
short  work  of  them.  It  was  not  until  noon  that 
Aunt  Jane  missed  him.  He  had  disappeared 
completely,  as  had  his  saddle-pony. 

At  first,  Jimmy  had  thought  of  riding  over  to 
his  father's  camp,  but  he  was  afraid  his  father 
would  guess  his  intent  and  send  him  back  home. 
So  he  tied  his  pony  to  a  clump  of  junipers  some 
distance  from  the  camp,  and,  crawling  to  a  rise, 
he  lay  and  watched  Cheyenne  saddle  up  and 
take  the  trail  that  led  into  the  high  country.  A 
half-hour  later,  Jimmy  mounted  his  pony  and, 
riding  wide  of  the  camp,  he  cut  into  the  hill  trail 
and  followed  it  on  up  through  the  brush  to  the 
hillside  timber.  He  planned  to  ride  until  he 
got  so  far  into  the  mountains  that  when  he 
did  overtake  his  father  and  offer  his  assistance 


144  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

in  locating  the  stolen  horses,  it  would  hardly 
seern  worth  while  to  send  him  back.  Jimmy  ex- 
pected to  be  ordered  back,  but  he  had  his  own 
argument  ready  in  that  event. 

Little  Jim's  pony  carried  him  swiftly  up 
the  grade.  Meanwhile,  Cheyenne  had 
traveled  rather  slowly,  saving  his  horse.  At 
a  bend  in  the  trail  he  drew  rein  to  breathe 
the  animal.  On  the  lookout  for  any  moving 
thing,  he  glanced  back  and  down — and  saw 
an  old  black  hat  bobbing  along  through  the 
brush  below.  He  leaned  forward  and  peered 
down.  "The  little  cuss!"  he  exclaimed, 
grinning.  Then  his  expression  changed. 
"Won't  do,  a-tall!  His  aunt  will  be  havin' 
fits — and  Miss  Dorry'll  be  helpin'  her  to 
have  'em,  if  she  hears  of  it.  Dog-gone  that 
boy!" 

Nevertheless,  Cheyenne  was  pleased.  His 
boy  had  sand,  and  liked  adventure.  Little  Jim 
might  have  stayed  in  camp,  with  Bartley,  and 
spent  a  joyous  day  shooting  at  a  mark,  inciden- 
tally hinting  to  the  Easterner  that  "his  ole 
twenty-two  was  about  worn  out."  But  Little 
Jim  had  chosen  to  follow  his  father  into  the 
hills. 

"Reckon  he  figures  to  see  what'll  happen," 


ANOTHER  GAME  145 

muttered  Cheyenne  as  he  led  his  horse  off  the 
trail  and  waited  for  Jimmy  to  come  up. 

Little  Jim's  black  hat  bobbed  steadily  up 
the  switchbacks.  Presently  he  was  on  the 
stretch  of  trail  at  the  end  of  which  his  father 
waited,  concealed  in  the  brush. 

As  Little  Jim's  pony  approached  the  bend  it 
pricked  its  ears  and  snorted.  "Git  along, 
you!"  said  Jimmy. 

"Where  you  goin'?"  queried  Cheyenne,  step- 
ping out  on  the  trail. 

Little  Jim  gazed  blankly  at  his  father.  "I'm 
just  a-ridin'.  I  wa'n't  goin'  no  place." 

"Well,  you  took  the  wrong  trail  to  get  there. 
You  fan  it  back  to  the  folks." 

"Aunt  Jane  is  my  boss!"  said  Jimmy  defiantly. 
"'Course  she  is,"  agreed  Cheyenne.  "You  and 
me,  we're  just  pardners.  But,  honest,  Jimmy, 
you  can't  do  no  good,  doggin'  along  after  me. 
Your  Aunt  Jane  would  sure  stretch  my  hide  if 
she  knowed  I  let  you  come  along." 

"I  won't  tell  her." 

"But  she'd  find  out.  You  just  ride  back  and 
wait  down  at  my  camp.  I'll  find  them  bosses, 
all  right." 

Little  Jim  hesitated,  twisting  his  fingers  in 
his  pony's  mane.  "Suppose,"  he  ventured, 


146  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"that  a  bunch  of  Sneed's  riders  was  to  run  on  to 
you?  You'd  sure  need  help." 

"That's  just  it!  Supposin'  they  did?  And 
supposin'  they  took  a  crack  at  us,  they  might 
git  you — for  you  sure  look  man-size,  a  little 
piece  off." 

Jimmy  grinned  at  the  compliment,  but  com- 
pliments could  not  alter  his  purpose.  "I  got 
my  ole  twenty -two  loaded,"  he  asserted  hope- 
fully. 

"Then  you  just  ride  back  and  help  Mr. 
Bartley  take  care  of  the  bosses.  He  ain't  much 
of  a  hand  with  stock." 

"Can't  I  go  with  you?" 

"Not  this  trip,  son.  But  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thin'.  Mr.  Bartley,  down  there,  said  to  me 
this  mornin'  that  he  was  goin'  to  buy  you  a 
brand-new  twenty-two  rifle,  one  of  these  days: 
mebby  after  we  locate  the  bosses.  You  better 
have  a  talk  with  him  about  it." 

This  was  a  temptation  to  ride  back:  yet 
Jimmy  had  set  his  heart  on  going  with  his 
father.  And  his  father  had  said  that  he  was 
simply  going  to  ride  up  to  Sneed's  place  and 
have  a  talk  with  him.  Jimmy  wanted  to 
hear  that  talk.  He  knew  that  his  father  meant 
business  when  he  had  told  him  to  go  back. 


ANOTHER  GAME  147 

"All  right  for  you!"  said  Jimmy  finally.  And 
he  reined  his  pony  round  and  rode  back  down  the 
trail  sullenly,  his  black  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes, 
and  his  small  back  very  straight  and  stiff. 

Cheyenne  watched  him  until  the  brush  of  the 
lower  levels  intervened.  Then  Cheyenne  began 
the  ascent,  his  eye  alert,  his  mind  upon  the  task 
ahead.  When  Little  Jim  realized  that  his  father 
was  so  far  into  the  timber  that  the  trail  below 
was  shut  from  view,  he  reined  his  pony  round 
again  and  began  to  climb  the  grade,  slowly,  this 
time,  for  fear  that  he  might  overtake  his  father 
too  soon. 

Riding  the  soundless  upland  trail  that  mean- 
dered among  the  spruce  and  pine,  skirting  the 
edges  of  the  mountain  meadows  and  keeping 
within  the  timber,  Cheyenne  finally  reached 
the  main  ridge  of  the  range.  Occasionally 
he  dismounted  and  examined  the  tracks  of 
horses. 

It  was  evident  that  Sneed  had  quite  a  bunch 
of  horses  running  in  the  meadows.  Presently 
Cheyenne  came  to  a  narrow  trail  which  crossed 
a  meadow.  At  the  far  end  of  the  trail,  close  to 
the  timber,  was  a  spring,  fenced  with  poles.  The 
spring  itself  was  boxed,  and  roundabout  were  the 
marks  of  high-heeled  boots.  Cheyenne  realized 


148  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

that  he  must  be  close  to  SneecTs  cabin.  He  won- 
dered if  he  had  been  seen. 

If  he  had,  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  act 
natural.  He  was  now  too  close  to  a  habitation 
• — although  he  could  see  none — to  do  otherwise. 
So  he  dismounted  and,  tying  his  horse  to  the 
spring  fence,  he  stepped  through  the  gate  and 
picked  up  the  rusted  tin  cup  and  dipped  it  in  the 
cold  mountain  water.  He  had  the  cup  halfway 
to  his  lips  when  his  horse  nickered.  From  some- 
where in  the  brush  came  an  answering  nicker. 
Cheyenne,  kneeling,  threw  the  water  from  the 
cup  as  though  he  had  discovered  dirt  in  it,  and 
dipped  the  cup  again. 

Behind  him  he  heard  his  horse  moving  rest- 
lessly. As  Cheyenne  raised  the  cup  to  drink,  he 
half  closed  his  eyes,  and  glancing  sideways, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure  standing  near  the 
upper  end  of  the  spring  fence.  Cheyenne  drank, 
set  down  the  cup,  and,  rising,  turned  his  back  on 
the  figure,  and,  stretching  his  arms,  yawned 
heartily.  He  strode  to  his  horse,  untied  the 
reins,  mounted,  and  began  to  sing: 

Seems  like  I  don't  get  anywhere 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along! 
But  we're  leavin*  here  and  — 


ANOTHER  GAME  149 

"What's  your  hurry?"  came  from  behind  him. 

Cheyenne  turned  and  glanced  back.  "Hello, 
neighbor!  Now,  if  I'd  'a'  knowed  you  was 
around,  I'd  'a'  asked  you  to  have  a  drink  with 


me." 


A  tall,  heavy-set  mountain  man,  bearded,  and 
limping  noticeably,  stepped  round  the  end  of  the 
spring  fence  and  strode  toward  him.  From 
Uncle  Frank's  description,  Cheyenne  at  once 
recognized  the  stranger  as  Sneed.  Across  Sneed's 
left  arm  lay  a  rifle.  Cheyenne  saw  him  let  down 
the  hammer  as  he  drew  near. 

"Where  you  headed?"  queried  Sneed. 

"Me,  I'm  lookin'  for  Bill  Sneed's  cabin.  You 
ain't  Sneed,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  Sneed." 

"Well,  I'm  in  luck.     I'm  Cheyenne  Hastings." 

"That  don't  buy  you  nothin'  around  here. 
What  do  you  want  to  see  me  about?" 

"Why,  I  done  lost  a  couple  of  hosses  the  other 
night.  I  reckon  somethin'  stampeded  'em,  for 
they  never  strayed  far  from  camp  before.  I 
trailed  'em  up  to  the  hills  and  then  lost  their 
tracks  on  the  rocks.  Thought  I'd  ride  up  and 
see  if  you  had  seen  'em — a,  little  ole  buckskin 
and  a  gray." 

Sneed  waved  his  hand  toward  the  east.    "My 


150  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

corrals  are  over  there.  You're  welcome  to  look 
my  stock  over." 

"Thanks.     This  way,  you  said?" 

"Straight  ahead." 

Cheyenne  hesitated,  hoping  that  Sneed  would 
take  the  lead.  But  the  mountain  man  merely 
gestured  again  and  followed  Cheyenne  through 
a  patch  of  timber,  and  across  another  meadow — 
and  Cheyenne  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  ridge  of  a 
cabin  roof,  and  smoke  above  it.  Close  to  the 
cabin  was  a  large  pole  corral.  Cheyenne  saw  the 
backs  of  Filaree  and  Joshua,  among  the  other 
horses,  long  before  he  came  to  the  corral.  Yet, 
not  wishing  to  appear  too  eager,  he  said 
nothing  until  he  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the 
fence. 

Then  he  turned  and  pointed.  "Them's  my 
bosses — the  gray  and  the  buckskin.  I'm  mighty 
glad  you  caught  'em  up." 

Sneed  nodded.  "One  of  my  boys  found  them 
in  with  a  bunch  of  my  stock  and  run  them  in 
here." 

A  few  rods  from  the  corral  stood  the  cabin, 
larger  than  Cheyenne  had  imagined,  and  built 
of  heavy  logs,  with  a  wide-roofed  porch  running 
across  the  entire  front.  On  the  veranda  lay 
several  saddles.  Tied  to  the  hitch  rail  stood 


ANOTHER  GAME  151 

two  chunky  mountain  ponies  that  showed  signs 
of  recent  hard  use. 

Cheyenne  smiled  as  he  turned  toward  Sneed. 
"You  got  a  mighty  snug  homestead  up  here, 
neighbor." 

"Tie  your  horse  and  step  in,"  invited  Sneed. 

"He'll  stand,"  said  Cheyenne,  dismounting 
and  dropping  the  reins. 

Cheyenne  was  in  the  enemy's  country.  But 
he  trusted  to  his  ability  to  play  up  to  his  repu- 
tation for  an  easy-going  hobo  to  get  him  out 
again,  without  trouble.  He  appeared  unaware 
of  the  covert  suspicion  with  which  Sneed 
watched  his  every  movement. 

"Meet  the  boys,"  said  Sneed  as  they  entered 
the  cabin. 

Cheyenne  nodded  to  the  four  men  who  sat 
playing  cards  at  a  long  table  in  the  main  room. 
They  returned  his  nod  indifferently  and  went  on 
with  their  game.  Cheyenne  pretended  an  inter- 
est in  the  game,  meanwhile  studying  the  visible 
characteristics  of  the  players.  One  and  all  they 
were  hard-boiled,  used  to  the  open,  rough- 
spoken,  and  indifferent  to  Cheyenne's  presence. 

Sneed  stepped  to  the  kitchen  and  pulled  the 
coffeepot  to  the  front  of  the  stove.  Finally 
Cheyenne  strolled  out  to  the  veranda  and  seated 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

himself  on  the  long  bench  near  the  doorway.  He 
picked  up  a  stick  and  began  to  whittle,  and  as 
he  whittled  his  gaze  traveled  from  the  log  stable 
to  the  corral,  and  from  there  to  the  edge  of  the 
clearing.  He  heard  Sneed  speak  to  one  of  the 
men  in  a  low  voice.  Cheyenne  slipped  his  knife 
into  his  pocket  and  his  fingers  touched  the  pair 
of  dice. 

He  drew  out  the  dice  and  rattled  them. 
"Go  'way,  you  snake  eyes!"  he  chanted  as 
he  threw  the  dice  along  the  bench.  "Little 
Jo,  where  you  bushin'  out?  You  sure  are 
bashful!"  He  threw  again.  "Roll  on,  you 
box-car!  I  don't  like  you,  nohow!  Nine? 
Nine?  Five  and  a  four!  Six  and  a  three!  Just 
as  easy!" 

Sneed  came  to  the  doorway  and  glanced  at 
Cheyenne,  who  continued  shooting  craps  with 
himself,  oblivious  to  Sneed's  muttered  comment. 
Sneed  turned  and  stepped  in.  "Crazy  as  a  hoot 
owl,"  he  said  as  one  of  the  card-players  glanced 
up. 

Cheyenne  picked  up  the  dice  and  listened. 
He  heard  Sneed  stepping  heavily  about  the 
kitchen,  and  he  heard  an  occasional  and  vivid 
exclamation  from  one  of  the  card-players.  He 
glanced  at  the  distant  edge  of  timber.  He 


ANOTHER  GAME  153 

shook  his  head.  "Can't  make  it!"  he  declared, 
and  again  he  threw  the  dice. 

One  of  the  cubes  rolled  off  the  bench.  He 
stooped  and  picked  it  up.  As  he  straightened, 
he  stared.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the  timber  he 
saw  Little  Jim's  pony,  and  Little  Jim's  black 
hat.  Some  one  in  the  cabin  pushed  back  a 
chair.  Evidently  the  card  game  was  finished. 

Then  Cheyenne  heard  Sneed's  voice:  "Just 
lay  off  that  game,  if  you  want  to  eat.  Come  and 
get  it." 

Wondering  what  Little  Jim  was  up  to,  Chey- 
enne turned  and  walked  into  the  cabin.  "Guess 
I'll  wash  up,  first,"  he  said,  gazing  about  as 
though  looking  for  the  wherewithal  to  wash.  He 
knew  well  enough  where  the  basin  was.  He  had 
noticed  it  out  by  the  kitchen  door,  when  he  rode 
up  to  the  cabin.  Sneed  told  him  where  to  find 
the  basin.  Cheyenne  stepped  round  the  cabin. 
Covertly  he  glanced  toward  the  edge  of  the  tim- 
ber. Little  Jim  had  disappeared. 

Entering  the  cabin  briskly,  Cheyenne  took  his 
place  at  the  table  and  ate  heartily. 

Lawson,  who  seemed  to  be  Sneed's  right-hand 
man,  was  the  first  to  speak  to  him.  "Bill  tells 
me  you  are  huntin'  hosses." 

"Yep!    That  little  gray  and  the  buckskin, 


154  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

out  in  your  corral,  are  my  bosses.  They 
strayed — " 

"Didn't  see  no  brand  on  'em/'  declared 
Lawson. 

"Nope.  They  never  was  branded.  I  raised 
'em  both,  when  I  .was  workin'  for  Senator  Steve, 
over  to  the  Box-S." 

"That  sounds  all  right.  But  you  got  to  show 
me.  I  bought  them  cayuses  from  a  Chola,  down 
in  the  valley." 

Cheyenne  suspected  that  Lawson  was  trying 
to  create  argument  and,  in  so  doing,  open  up  a 
way  to  make  him  back  down  and  leave  or  take 
the  consequences  of  his  act  in  demanding  the 
horses. 

"Honest,  they're  my  bosses,"  declared  Chey- 
enne, turning  to  Sneed. 

"You'll  have  to  talk  to  Lawson,"  said  Sneed. 

Cheyenne  frowned  and  scratched  his  head. 
Suddenly  his  face  brightened.  "Tell  you  what 
I'll  do!  I'll  shoot  you  craps  for  'em." 

"That's  all  right,  but  what'll  you  put  up 
against  'em?"  asked  Lawson. 

"What  did  you  pay  for  'em?"  queried  Chey- 
enne. 

"Fifty  bucks." 

"You  got  'em  cheap.     They're  worth  that 


ANOTHER  GAME  155 

much  to  me."  Cheyenne  pushed  back  his  chair 
and,  fishing  in  his  jeans,  dug  up  a  purse.  "Here's 
my  fifty.  As  soon  as  you  get  through  eatin'  we'll 
shoot  for  the  ponies." 

Lawson,  while  finishing  his  meal,  made  up  his 
mind  that  Cheyenne  would  not  get  away  with 
that  fifty  dollars,  game  or  no  game;  and,  also, 
that  he  would  not  get  the  horses.  Cheyenne 
knew  this — knew  the  kind  of  man  he  was  dealing 
with.  But  he  had  a  reason  to  keep  the  men  in 
the  cabin.  Little  Jim  was  out  there  somewhere, 
and  up  to  something.  If  any  of  the  men  hap- 
pened to  catch  sight  of  Little  Jim,  they  would 
suspect  Cheyenne  of  some  trickery.  Moreover, 
if  Little  Jim  were  caught — but  Cheyenne  refused 
to  let  himself  think  of  what  might  happen  in 
that  event. 

Cheyenne  threw  the  dice  on  the  table  as 
Lawson  got  up.  "Go  ahead  and  shoot." 

"Show  me  what  I  got  to  beat,"  said  Lawson. 

"All  right.     Watch  'em  close." 

Cheyenne  gathered  up  the  dice  and  threw. 
Calling  his  point,  he  snapped  his  fingers  and 
threw  again.  The  men  crowded  round,  mo- 
mentarily interested  in  Cheyenne's  sprightly 
monologue.  Happening  to  glance  through  the 
doorway  as  he  gathered  up  the  dice  for  another 


156  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

throw,  Cheyenne  noticed  that  his  horse  had 
turned  and  was  standing,  with  ears  and  eyes 
alert,  looking  toward  the  corral. 

Cheyenne  tossed  up  the  dice,  caught  them  and 
purposely  made  a  wild  throw.  One  of  the  little 
cubes  shot  across  the  table  and  clattered  on  the 
floor.  Cheyenne  barely  had  time  to  glance 
through  the  kitchen  doorway  and  the  window 
beyond  as  he  recovered  the  cube.  But  he  had 
seen  that  the  corral  bars  were  down  and  that  the 
corral  was  empty.  Quickly  he  resumed  his 
place  at  the  table  and  threw  again,  meanwhile 
talking  steadily.  He  had  not  made  his  point 
nor  had  he  thrown  a  seven.  Sweat  prickled  on 
his  forehead.  Little  Jim  had  seen  his  father's 
horses  and  knew  that  the  men  were  in  the  cabin. 
With  the  rashness  of  boyhood  he  had  sneaked 
up  to  the  corral,  dropped  the  bars,  and  had  then 
flung  pine  cones  at  the  horses,  starting  them  to 
milling  and  finally  to  a  dash  through  the  gate- 
way and  out  into  the  meadow. 

Cheyenne  brushed  his  arm  across  his  face. 
"Come  on  you,  Filaree!"  he  chanted. 

Somebody  would  be  mightily  surprised  when 
the  ownership  of  Filaree  and  Joshua  was  finally 
decided.  Unwittingly,  Little  Jim  had  placed 
his  father  in  a  still  more  precarious  position. 


ANOTHER  GAME  157 

Sneed  and  his  men,  finding  the  corral  empty, 
would  naturally  conclude  that  Cheyenne  had 
kept  them  busy  while  some  friend  had  run  off 
the  horses.  Cheyenne  knew  the  risks  he  ran; 
but,  above  all,  he  wanted  to  prolong  the  game 
until  Little  Jim  got  safely  beyond  reach  of 
Sneed's  men.  As  for  himself — 

Again  Cheyenne  threw,  but  he  did  not  make 
his  point,  nor  throw  a  seven.  He  threw  several 
times;  and  still  he  did  not  make  his  point.  Fin- 
ally he  made  his  point.  Smiling,  he  gathered  up 
his  money  and  tucked  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I  reckon  that  settles  it,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

Sneed  and  Lawson  exchanged  glances.  Chey- 
enne, rolling  a  cigarette,  drew  a  chair  toward 
them  and  sat  down.  He  seemed  at  home,  and 
altogether  friendly.  One  of  the  men  picked  up 
a  deck  of  cards  and  suggested  a  game.  Sneed 
lighted  his  pipe  and  stepped  to  the  kitchen  to 
get  a  drink  of  water.  Cheyenne  glanced  casu- 
ally round  the  cabin,  drew  his  feet  under  him- 
self, and  jumped  for  the  doorway.  He  heard 
Sneed  drop  the  dipper  and  knew  that  Sneed 
would  pick  up  something  else,  and  quickly. 

Cheyenne  made  the  saddle  on  the  run,  reined 
toward  the  corral,  and,  passing  it  on  the  run, 
turned  in  the  saddle  to  glance  back.  Sneed  was 


158  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

in  the  doorway.  Cheyenne  jerked  his  horse  to 
one  side  and  dug  in  the  spurs.  Sneed's  rifle 
barked  and  a  bullet  whined  past  Cheyenne's 
head.  He  crouched  in  the  saddle.  Again  a 
bullet  whistled  across  the  sunlit  clearing.  The 
cow-horse  was  going  strong.  A  tree  flicked 
past,  then  another  and  another. 

Cheyenne  straightened  in  the  saddle  and 
glanced  back  through  the  timber.  He  saw  a 
jumble  of  men  and  horses  in  front  of  the  cabin. 
"They  got  just  two  bosses  handy,  and  they're 
rode  down,"  he  muttered  as  he  sped  through  the 
shadows  of  the  forest. 

Across  another  sun-swept  meadow  he  rode, 
and  into  the  timber  again — and  before  he  real- 
ized it  he  was  back  on  the  mountain  trail  that  led 
to  the  valley.  He  took  the  first  long,  easy  grade 
on  the  run,  checked  at  the  switchback,  and 
pounded  down  the  succeeding  grade,  still  under 
cover  of  the  hillside  timber,  but  rapidly  nearing 
the  more  open  country  of  brush  and  rock. 

As  he  reined  in  at  the  second  switchback  he 
saw,  far  below,  and  going  at  a  lively  trot,  seven 
or  eight  horses,  and  behind  them,  hazing  them 
along  as  fast  as  the  trail  would  permit,  Little 
Jim. 

"If  Sneed's  outfit  gets  to  the  rim  before  he 


ANOTHER  GAME  159 

makes  the  next  turn,  they'll  get  him  sure," 
reasoned  Cheyenne. 

He  thought  of  turning  back  and  trying  to  stop 
Sneed's  men.  He  thought  of  turning  his  horse 
loose  and  ambushing  the  mountainmen,  afoot. 
But  Cheyenne  did  not  want  to  kill.  His  greatest 
fear  was  that  Little  Jim  might  get  hurt.  As  he 
hesitated,  a  rifle  snarled  from  the  rim  above,  and 
he  saw  Little  Jim's  horse  flinch  and  jump  for- 
ward. 

"I  reckon  it's  up  to  us,  old  Steel  Dust,"  he 
said  to  his  horse. 

Hoping  to  draw  the  fire  of  the  men  above,  he 
eased  his  horse  round  the  next  bend  and  then 
spurred  him  to  a  run.  Below,  Little  Jim  was 
jogging  along,  within  a  hundred  yards  or  so  of 
the  bend  that  would  screen  him  from  sight. 
Realizing  that  he  could  never  make  the  next 
turn  on  the  run,  Cheyenne  gripped  with  his 
knees,  and  leaned  back  to  meet  the  shock  as 
Steel  Dust  plunged  over  the  end  of  the  turn  and 
crashed  through  the  brush  below.  A  slug 
whipped  through  the  brush  and  clipped  a  twig 
in  front  of  the  horse. 

Steel  Dust  swerved  and  lunged  on  down 
through  the  heavy  brush.  A  naked  creek-bed 
showed  white  and  shimmering  at  the  bottom  of 


160  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  slope.  Again  a  slug  whined  through  the 
sunlight  and  Cheyenne's  hat  spun  from  his  head 
and  settled  squarely  on  a  low  bush.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Cheyenne  that  he  grabbed  for 
his  hat — and  got  it  as  he  dashed  past. 

"Keep  the  change,"  said  Cheyenne  as  he 
ducked  beneath  a  branch  and  straightened  up 
again.  He  was  almost  to  the  creek-bed,  naked 
to  the  sunlight,  and  a  bad  place  to  cross  with 
guns  going  from  above.  He  pulled  up,  slipped 
from  his  horse,  and  slapped  him  on  the  flank. 

The  pony  leaped  forward,  dashed  across  the 
creek-bed,  and  cut  into  the  trail  beyond.  A 
bullet  flattened  to  a  silver  splash  on  a  boulder. 
Another  bullet  shot  a  spurt  of  sand  into  the  air. 
Cheyenne  crouched  tense,  and  then  made  a 
rush.  A  slug  sang  past  his  head.  Heat  palpi- 
tated in  the  narrow  draw.  He  gained  the  oppo- 
site bank,  dropped,  and  crawled  through  the 
brush  and  lay  panting,  close  to  the  trail.  From 
above  him  somewhere  came  the  note  of  a  bird: 
Chirr-up!  Chirr-up!  Again  a  slug  tore  through 
the  brush  scattering  twigs  and  tiny  leaves  on 
Cheyenne's  hat. 

"That  one  didn't  say,  'Cheer  up!"  mur- 
mured Cheyenne. 

When  he  had  caught  his  breath  he  crawled  out 


ANOTHER  GAME  161 

and  into  the  narrow  trail.  The  shooting  had 
ceased.  Evidently  the  men  were  riding.  Step- 
ping round  the  shoulder  of  the  next  bend,  he 
peered  up  toward  the  rim  of  the  range.  A  tiny 
figure  appeared  riding  down  the  first  long  grade, 
and  then  another  figure.  Turning,  he  saw  his 
own  horse  quietly  nipping  at  the  grass  in  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks  along  the  trail. 

He  walked  down  to  the  horse  slowly  and 
caught  him  up.  Loosening  his  carbine  from  the 
scabbard,  and  deeming  himself  lucky  to  have  it, 
after  that  wild  ride  down  the  mountain,  he 
stepped  back  to  the  angle  of  the  bend,  rested  the 
carbine  against  a  rocky  shoulder  and  dropped  a 
shot  in  front  of  the  first  rider,  who  stopped  sud- 
denly and  took  to  cover. 

"That'll  hold  'em  for  a  spell,"  said  Cheyenne, 
stepping  back.  He  mounted  and  rode  on  down 
the  trail,  eyeing  the  tracks  of  the  horses  that 
Little  Jim  was  hazing  toward  the  valley  below. 
Cheyenne  shook  his  head.  "He's  done  run  off 
the  whole  doggone  outfit!  There's  nothin' 
stingy  about  that  kid." 

Striking  to  the  lower  level,  Cheyenne  cut 
across  country  to  his  camp.  He  found  Bartley 
leaning  comfortably  back  against  a  saddle, 
reading  aloud,  and  opposite  him  sat  Dorry,  so 


162  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

intent  upon  the  reading  that  she  did  not  hear 
Cheyenne  until  he  spoke. 

"Evenin',  folks!     Seen  anything  of  Jimmy?" 

"Oh — Cheyenne!  No,  have  you?"  It  was 
Dorothy  who  spoke,  as  Bartley  closed  the  book 
and  got  to  his  feet. 

"Was  you  lookin'  for  Jimmy's  address  in  that 
there  book?"  queriedCheyenne,  grinning  broadly. 

Dorothy  flushed  and  glanced  at  Bartley,  who 
immediately  changed  the  subject  by  calling  at- 
tention to  Cheyenne's  hat.  Cheyenne  also 
changed  the  subject  by  stating  that  Jimmy  had 
recently  ridden  down  the  trail  toward  the  ranch 
— -with  some  horses. 

"Then  you  got  your  horses?"  said  Bartley. 

"I  reckon  they're  over  to  the  ranch  about 


now." 


"Jimmy  has  been  gone  all  day,"  said  Dorothy. 
"Aunt  Jane  is  terribly  worried  about  him." 

"Jimmy  and  me  took  a  little  ride  in  the  hills/' 
said  Cheyenne  casually.  "But  you  needn't  to 
tell  Aunt  Jane  that  Jimmy  was  with  me.  It 
turned  out  all  right." 

"I  rode  over  to  your  camp  to  look  for  Jimmy," 
said  Dorothy,  "but  Mr.  Bartley  had  not  seen 
him." 

Cheyenne  nodded  and  reined  his  horse  round. 


ANOTHER  GAME  163 

"Why,  your  shirt  is  almost  ripped  from  your 
back!"  said  Bartley. 

"My  hoss  shied,  back  yonder,  and  stepped  off 
into  the  brush.  We  kept  on  through  the  brush. 
It  was  shorter." 

Dorothy  mounted  her  horse,  and,  nodding 
farewell  to  Bartley,  accompanied  Cheyenne  to 
the  ranch.  When  they  were  halfway  there, 
Dorothy,  who  had  been  riding  thoughtfully 
along,  saying  nothing,  turned  to  her  companion : 
"Cheyenne,  you  had  trouble  up  there.  You 
might  at  least  tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  Miss  Dorry — "  And  Cheyenne  told  her 
how  Jimmy  had  followed  him,  how  he  had  sent 
Jimmy  back,  and  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
that  young  hopeful  in  the  timber  near  Sneed's 
cabin.  "I  was  in  there,  figurin'  hard  how  to  get 
my  bosses  and  get  away,  when,  somehow, 
Jimmy  got  to  the  corral  and  turned  Sneed's 
stock  loose  and  hazed  'em  down  the  trail.  But 
where  he  run  'em  to  is  the  joke.  I  figured  he 
would  show  up  at  our  camp.  It  would  be  just 
like  him  to  run  the  whole  bunch  into  the  ranch 
corral.  And  I  reckon  he  done  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Sneed!"  exclaimed  Dorothy.  "If 
he  finds  out  we  had  anything  to  do  with  run- 
ning off  his  horses — •" 


ia4  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"He  never  saw  Jimmy  clost  enough  to  tell 
who  he  was.  'Course,  Sneed  knows  Aunt  Jane 
is  my  sister,  and  most  he'll  suspicion  is  that  I 
got  help  from  some  of  my  folks.  But  so  far  he 
don't  know  who  helped  me  turn  the  trick." 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  very  serious  about  it," 
declared  Dorothy. 

"Serious?  Me?  Why,  ain't  most  folks  serious 
enough  without  everybody  bein'  took  that  way?" 

"Perhaps.  But  I  knew  something  had  hap- 
pened the  minute  you  rode  into  camp." 

"So  did  I,"  asserted  Cheyenne,  and  he  spoke 
sharply  to  his  horse. 

Dorothy  flushed.  "Cheyenne,  I  rode  over  to 
find  Jimmy.  You  needn't — •  Oh,  there's  Aunt 
Jane  now!  And  there's  Jimmy,  and  the  corral 
is  full  of  horses!" 

"Reckon  we  better  step  along,"  and  Chey- 
enne put  Steel  Dust  to  a  lope. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MORE    PONY   TRACKS 

SUMMONED  from  the  west  end  of  the  ranch, 
where  he  had  been  irrigating  the  alfalfa,  Uncle 
Frank  arrived  at  the  house  just  as  Cheyenne 
and  Dorothy  rode  up.  Little  Jim  was  excitedly 
endeavoring  to  explain  to  Aunt  Jane  how  the 
corral  came  to  be  filled  with  strange  horses. 

Uncle  Frank  nodded  to  Cheyenne  and  turned 
to  Jimmy.     "Where  you  been?" 
"I  was  over  on  the  mountain." 
"How  did  these  horses  get  here?" 
Uncle  Frank's  eye  was  stern.     Jimmy  hesi- 
tated.   He  had  been  forbidden  to  go  near  Sneed's 
place ;  and  he  knew  that  all  that  stood  between  a 
harness  strap  and  his  small  jeans  was  the  pres- 
ence of  Dorothy  and  Cheyenne.     It  was  pretty 
tough  to  have  recovered  the  stolen  horses  single- 
handed,  and  then  to  take  a  licking  for  it. 
Little  Jim  gazed  hopefully  at  his  father. 
"Why,  I  was  chousin'  around  up  there,"  he 
explained,  "and  I  seen  dad's  bosses,  and — and  I 
started  'em  down  the  trail  and  the  whole  blame 


166  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

bunch  followed  'em.  They  was  travelin'  so  fast 
I  couldn't  cut  'em  out,  so  I  just  let  'em  drift. 
Filaree  and  Josh  just  nacherally  headed  for  the 
corral  and  the  rest  followed  'em  in." 

Uncle  Frank  gazed  sternly  at  Jimmy.  "Who 
told  you  to  help  your  father  get  his  horses?" 

"Nobody." 

"Did  your  Aunt  Jane  tell  you  you  could  go 
over  to  the  mountain?" 

"I  never  asked  her." 

"You  trot  right  into  the  house  and  stay  there," 
said  Uncle  Frank. 

Little  Jim  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Chey- 
enne and  walked  slowly  toward  the  house,  inci- 
dentally and  unconsciously  rubbing  his  hand 
across  his  jeans  with  a  sort  of  anticipatory  move- 
ment. He  bit  his  lip,  and  the  tears  started  to 
his  eyes.  But  he  shook  them  away,  wondering 
what  he  might  do  to  avert  the  coming  storm. 
Perhaps  his  father  would  interpose  between  him 
and  the  dreaded  harness  strap.  Yet  Jimmy 
knew  that  his  father  had  never  interfered  when 
a  question  of  discipline  arose. 

Suddenly  Little  Jim's  face  brightened.  He 
marched  through  the  house  to  the  wash  bench, 
and,  unsolicited,  washed  his  hands  and  face 
and  soaped  his  hair,  after  which  he  slicked  it 


MORE  PONY  TRACKS  167 

down  carefully,  so  that  there  might  be  no 
mistake  about  his  having  brushed  and  combed 
it.  He  rather  hoped  that  Uncle  Frank  or 
Aunt  Jane  would  come  in  just  then  and  find  him 
at  this  unaccustomed  task.  It  might  help. 

Meanwhile,  Cheyenne  and  his  brother-in-law 
had  a  talk,  outside.  Dorothy  and  Aunt  Jane 
retired  to  the  veranda,  talking  in  low  tones. 
Presently  Little  Jim,  who  could  stand  the  strain 
no  longer, — the  jury  seemed  a  long  time  at 
arriving  at  a  verdict, — appeared  on  the  front 
veranda,  hatless,  washed,  and  his  hair  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  brushed  and  combed. 

"Why,  Jimmy!"  exclaimed  Dorothy. 

Jimmy  fidgeted  and  glanced  away  bashfully. 
Presently  he  stole  to  his  Aunt  Jane's  side. 

"Am  I  goin'  to  get  a  lickin'?"  he  queried. 

Aunt  Jane  shook  her  head,  and  patted  his 
hand.  Entrenched  beside  Aunt  Jane,  Jimmy 
watched  his  father  and  Uncle  Frank  as  they 
talked  by  the  big-  corral.  Uncle  Frank  was 
gesturing  toward  the  mountains.  Cheyenne 
was  arguing  quietly. 

"It  ain't  just  the  runnin'  off  of  Sneed's 
hosses,"  said  Uncle  Frank.  "That's  bad  enough. 
But  I  told  Jimmy  to  keep  away  from  Sneed's." 

"So  did  I,"  declared  Cheyenne.     "And  seein' 


168  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

as  I'm  his  dad,  it's  up  to  me  to  lick  him  if  he's 
goin'  to  get  licked." 

"Sneed  is  like  to  ride  down  some  night  and 
set  fire  to  the  barns,"  asserted  Uncle  Frank. 

"Sneed  don't  know  yet  who  run  off  his  stock. 
And  he  can't  say  that  I  did,  and  prove  it.  Now, 
Frank,  you  just  hold  your  hosses.  I'll  ride  over 
to  camp  and  get  my  outfit  together  and  come 
over  here.  Then  we'll  throw  Steve  Brown's 
hosses  into  your  pasture,  and  I'll  see  that  Sneed's 
stock  is  out  of  here,  pronto." 

"That's  all  right.  But  Sneed  will  trail  his 
stock  down  here." 

"But  he  won't  find  'em  here.  And  he'll 
never  know  they  was  in  your  corral." 

Uncle  Frank  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  He 
was  a  pessimist  and  always  argued  the  worst  of  a 
possible  situation. 

"And  before  I'll  see  Jimmy  take  a  lickin* 
— -this  trip — I'll  ride  back  and  shoot  it  out  with 
Sneed  and  his  outfit,"  stated  Cheyenne. 

"I  reckon  you're  fool  enough  to  do  it,"  said 
Uncle  Frank. 

An  hour  later  Bartley  and  Cheyenne  were  at 
the  Lawrence  ranch,  where  they  changed  packs, 
saddled  Filaree  and  Joshua,  and  turned  the 


MORE  PONY  TRACKS  169 

horses  borrowed  from  Steve  Brown  into  Uncle 
Frank's  back  pasture. 

Little  Jim  watched  these  operations  with 
keen  interest.  He  wanted  to  help,  but  refrained 
for  fear  that  he  would  muss  up  his  hair — -and 
he  wanted  Uncle  Frank  to  notice  his  hair  as  it 
was. 

Aunt  Jane  hastily  prepared  a  meal  and 
Dorothy  helped. 

In  a  few  minutes  Cheyenne  and  Bartley  had 
eaten,  and  were  ready  for  the  road.  Cheyenne 
stepped  up  and  shook  hands  with  Jimmy,  as 
though  Jimmy  were  a  grown-up.  Jimmy  felt 
elated.  There  was  no  one  just  like  his  father, 
even  if  folks  did  say  that  Cheyenne  Hastings 
could  do  better  than  ride  around  the  country 
singing  and  joking  with  everybody. 

"And  don't  forget  to  stop  by  when  you  come 
back,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  bidding  farewell  to 
Bartley. 

Dorothy  shook  hands  with  the  Easterner  and 
wished  him  a  pleasant  journey,  rather  coolly, 
Bartley  thought.  She  was  much  more  animated 
when  bidding  farewell  to  Cheyenne. 

"And  I  won't  forget  to  send  you  that  rifle," 
said  Bartley  as  he  nodded  to  Little  Jim. 

Uncle  Frank  helped  them  haze  Sneed's  horses 


170  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

out  of  the  yard  on  to  the  road,  where  Cheyenne 
waited  to  head  them  from  taking  the  hill  trail, 
again. 

Just  as  he  left,  Bartley  turned  to  Dorothy 
who  stood  twisting  a  pomegranate  bud  in  her 
fingers.  "May  I  have  it?"  he  asked,  half  in 
jest. 

She  tossed  the  bud  to  him  and  he  caught  it. 
Then  he  spurred  out  after  Cheyenne  who  was 
already  hazing  the  horses  down  the  road.  Oc- 
casionally one  of  the  horses  tried  to  break  out 
and  take  to  the  hills,  but  Cheyenne  always 
headed  it  back  to  the  bunch,  determined,  for 
some  reason  unknown  to  Bartley,  to  keep  the 
horses  together  and  going  south. 

The  road  climbed  gradually,  winding  in  and 
out  among  the  foothills.  As  the  going  became 
stiff er,  the  rock  outcropped  and  the  dust  settled. 

The  horses  slowed  to  a  walk.  Bartley  won- 
dered why  his  companion  seemed  determined 
to  drive  Sneed's  stock  south.  He  thought  it 
would  be  just  as  well  to  let  them  break  for  the 
hills,  and  not  bother  with  them.  But  Cheyenne 
offered  no  explanation.  He  evidently  knew 
what  he  was  about. 

To  their  right  lay  the  San  Andreas  Valley 
across  which  the  long,  slanting  shadows  of 


MORE  PONY  TRACKS  171 

sunset  crept  slowly.  Still  Cheyenne  kept  the 
bunch  of  horses  going  briskly,  when  the  going 
permitted  speed.  Just  over  a  rise  they  came 
suddenly  upon  an  Apache,  riding  a  lean,  active 
paint  horse.  Cheyenne  pulled  up  and  talked 
with  the  Indian.  The  latter  grinned,  nodded, 
and,  jerking  his  pony  round,  rode  after  the  horses 
as  they  drifted  ahead.  Bartley  saw  the  Apache 
bunch  the  animals  again,  and  turn  them  off  the 
road  toward  the  hills. 

* 'Didn't  expect  to  meet  up  with  luck,  so  soon," 
declared  Cheyenne.  "I  figured  to  turn  Sneed's 
bosses  loose  when  I'd  got  'em  far  enough  from 
the  ranch.  But  that  Injun'll  take  care  of  'em. 
Sneed  ain't  popular  with  the  Apaches.  Sneed's 
cabin  is  right  clost  to  the  res'avation  line." 

"What  will  the  Indian  do  with  the  horses?" 
queried  Bartley. 

"Most  like  trade  'em  to  his  friends." 

Bartley  gestured  toward  a  spot  of  green  far 
across  the  valley.  "Looks  like  a  town,"  he  said. 

"San  Andreas — -and  that's  where  we  stop, 
to-night.  No  campin*  in  the  brush  for  me  while 
Sneed  is  ridin'  the  country  lookin'  for  his  stock. 
It  wouldn't  be  healthy." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SAN   ANDREAS     TOWN 

A  SLEEPY  town,  that  paid  little  attention  to  the 
arrival  or  departure  of  strangers,  San  Andreas 
in  the  valley  merely  rubbed  its  eyes  and  dozed 
again  as  Cheyenne  and  Bartley  rode  in,  put  up 
their  horses  at  the  livery,  and  strolled  over  to 
the  adobe  hotel  where  they  engaged  rooms  for 
the  night. 

Bartley  was  taken  by  the  picturesque  sim- 
plicity of  the  place,  and  next  morning  he  sug- 
gested that  they  stay  a  few  days  and  enjoy  the 
advantage  of  having  some  one  other  than  them- 
selves cook  their  meals  and  make  their  beds. 
The  hotel,  a  relic  of  old  times,  with  its  patio  and 
long  portal,  its  rooms  whose  lower  floors  were 
on  the  ground  level,  its  unpretentious  spacious- 
ness, appealed  strongly  to  Bartley  as  something 
unusual  in  the  way  of  a  hostelry.  It  seemed 
restful,  romantic,  inviting.  It  was  a  place  where 
a  man  might  write,  dream,  loaf,  and  smoke. 
Then,  incidentally,  it  was  not  far  from  tha 
Lawrence  ranch,  which  was  not  far  from  the 


SAN  ANDREAS    TOWN  173 

home  of  a  certain  young  woman  whom  Little 
Jim  called  "Dorry." 

Bartley  thought  that  Dorothy  was  rather  nice 
— in  fact,  singularly  interesting.  He  had  not 
imagined  that  a  Western  girl  could  be  so  thor- 
oughly domestic,  natural,  charming,  and  at  the 
same  time  manage  a  horse  so  well.  He  had 
visioned  Western  girls  as  hard-voiced  horse- 
women, masculine,  bold,  and  rather  scornful  of 
a  man  who  did  not  wear  chaps  and  ride  broncos. 
True,  Dorothy  was  not  like  the  girls  in  the  East. 
She  seemed  less  sophisticated — less  inclined  to 
talk  small  talk  just  for  its  own  sake;  yet,  con- 
cluded Bartley,  she  was  utterly  feminine  and 
quite  worth  while. 

Cheyenne  smiled  as  Bartley  suggested  that 
they  stay  in  San  Andreas  a  few  days;  and 
Cheyenne  nodded  in  the  direction  from  which 
they  had  come. 

"I  kinda  like  this  part  of  the  country,  myself/' 
he  said,  "but  I  hate  to  spend  all  my  money  in 
one  place." 

Bartley  suddenly  realized  that  his  companion 
was  nothing  more  than  a  riding  hobo,  a  vagrant, 
without  definite  means  of  support,  and  disin- 
clined to  stay  in  any  one  place  long. 

"I'll  take  care  of  the  expenses,"  said  Bartley. 


174  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Cheyenne  smiled,  but  shook  his  head.  "It 
ain't  that,  right  now.  Me,  I  got  to  shoot  that 
there  game  of  craps  with  Panhandle,  and  I 
figure  he  won't  ride  this  way." 

"But  you  have  recovered  your  horses,"  argued 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne  gestured  toward  the  south.  "I 
reckon  I'll  keep  movin',  pardner.  And  that 
game  of  craps  is  as  good  a  excuse  as  I  want." 

"I  had  hoped  that  it  would  be  plain  sailing, 
from  now  on,"  declared  Bartley.  "I  thought 
of  stopping  here  only  three  or  four  days.  This 
sort  of  town  is  new  to  me." 

"They's  lots  like  it,  between  here  and  the 
border,"  said  Cheyenne.  "But  I  don't  want  no 
'dobe  walls  between  me  and  the  sky-line, 
reg'lar.  I  can  stand  it  for  a  day,  mebby." 

"Well,  perhaps  we  may  agree  to  dissolve 
partnership  temporarily,"  suggested  Bartley. 
"I  think  I'll  stay  here  a  few  days,  at  least." 

"That's  all  right,  pardner.  I  don't  aim  to 
tell  no  man  how  to  live.  But  me,  I  aim  to 
live  in  the  open." 

"Do  you  think  that  man  Sneed  will  ride  down 
this  way?"  queried  Bartley,  struck  by  a  sudden 
idea. 

"That  ain't  why  I  figure  to  keep  movin'," 


SAN  ANDREAS   TOWN  175 

said  Cheyenne.  "But  seein'  as  you  figure  to 
stay,  I'll  stick  around  to-day,  and  light  out 
to-morrow  mornin'.  Mebby  you'll  change  your 
mind,  and  come  along." 

Bartley  spent  the  forenoon  with  Cheyenne, 
prowling  about  the  old  town,  interested  in  its 
quaint  unusualness.  The  afternoon  heat  drove 
him  to  the  shade  of  the  hotel  veranda,  and,  feel- 
ing unaccountably  drowsy,  he  finally  went  to 
his  room,  and,  stretching  out  on  the  bed,  fell 
asleep.  He  was  awakened  by  Cheyenne's  knock 
at  the  door.  Supper  was  ready. 

After  supper  they  strolled  out  to  the  street 
and  watched  the  town  wake  up.  From  down  the 
street  a  ways  came  the  sound  of  a  guitar  and 
singing.  A  dog  began  to  howl.  Then  came  a 
startled  yelp,  and  the  howl  died  away  in  the 
dusk.  The  singing  continued.  A  young  Mexi- 
can in  a  blue  serge  suit,  tan  shoes,  and  with  a 
black  sombrero  set  aslant  on  his  head,  walked 
down  the  street  beside  a  Mexican  girl,  young, 
fat,  and  giggling.  They  passed  the  hotel  with 
all  the  self -consciousness  of  being  attired  in  their 
holiday  raiment. 

A  wagon  rattled  past  and  stopped  at  the  saloon 
a  few  doors  down  the  street.  Then  a  ragged 
Mexican,  hazing  two  tired  burros,  appeared  in 


176  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  dim  light  cast  from  a  window — -a  quaint 
silhouette  that  merged  in  the  farther  shadows. 
Cheyenne  moved  his  feet  restlessly. 

Bartley  smiled.  "The  road  for  mine,"  he 
quoted. 

Cheyenne  nodded.  "Reckon  I'll  go  see  how 
the  bosses  are  makin'  it." 

"I'll  walk  over  with  you,"  said  Bartley. 

As  they  came  out  of  the  livery  barn  again, 
Bartley  happened  to  glance  at  the  lighted  door- 
way of  the  cantina  opposite.  From  within  the 
saloon  came  the  sound  of  glasses  clinking 
occasionally,  and  voices  engaged  in  lazy  conver- 
sation. Cheyenne  fingered  the  dice  in  his 
pocket  and  hummed  a  tune.  Slowly  he  moved 
toward  the  lighted  doorway,  and  Bartley  walked 
beside  him. 

"I  got  a  thirst,"  stated  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  laughed.  "Well,  as  we  are  about  to 
dissolve  partnership,  I  don't  mind  taking  one 
myself." 

"Tough  joint,"  declared  Cheyenne  as  he 
stepped  up  to  the  doorway. 

"All  the  better,"  said  Bartley. 

A  young  rancher,  whose  team  stood  at 
the  hitch-rail,  nodded  pleasantly  as  they 
entered. 


SAN  ANDREAS   TOWN  177 

"Mescal,"  said  Cheyenne,  and  he  laid  a  silver 
dollar  on  the  bar. 

Bartley  glanced  about  the  low-ceilinged  room. 
The  place,  poorly  lighted  with  oil  lamps,  looked 
sinister  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  hardy  adven- 
turer, although  it  was  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of 
social  center  for  the  enjoyment  of  vino  and  talk. 
The  bar  was  narrow,  made  of  seme  kind  of  soft 
wood?  and  painted  bide.  The  top  of  it  was 
almost  paintless  in  patches. 

Back  of  the  bar  a  narrow  shelf,  also  painted 
blue,  offered  a  lean  choice  of  liquors.  Several 
Mexicans  lounged  at  the  side  tables  along  the 
wall.  The  young  American  rancher  stood  at 
the  bar,  drinking.  The  proprietor,  a  fat,  one- 
eyed  Mexican  whose  face  was  deeply  pitted  from 
smallpox,  served  Bartley  and  Cheyenne  grudg- 
ingly. The  mescal  was  fiery  stuff.  Bartley 
coughed  as  he  swallowed  it. 

"Why  not  just  whiskey,  and  have  it  over 
with?"  he  queried,  grinning  at  Cheyenne. 

"Whiskey  ain't  whiskey,  here,"  Cheyenne 
replied.  "But  mescal  is  just  what  she  says  she 
is.  I  like  to  know  the  kind  of  poison  I'm  drink- 


in'/ 


Bartley  began  to  experience  an  inner  glow 
that   was   not   unpleasant.     Once    down,    this 


178  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

native  Mexican  drink  was  not  so  bad.  He  laid 
a  coin  on  the  bar  and  the  glasses  were  filled  again. 
Cheyenne  nodded  and  drank  Bartley's  health. 
Bartley  suggested  that  they  sit  at  one  of  the  side 
tables  and  study  the  effects  of  mescal  on  the 
natives  present. 

"Let  joy  be  unconfined,"  said  Cheyenne. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  get  that?" 

"Oh,  I  can  read,"  declared  Cheyenne.  "Be- 
fore I  took  to  ramblin',  I  used  to  read  some, 
nights.  I  reckon  that's  where  I  got  the  idea  of 
makin'  up  po'try,  later." 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Bartley. 

"The  mescal  must  of  told  you." 

"I  don't  quite  get  that,"  said  Bartley. 

"No?  Well,  you  ain't  the  first.  Josh  and 
Filaree  is  the  only  ones  that  sabes  me.  Let's 
sit  in  this  corner  and  watch  the  mescal  work 
for  a  livin'." 

It  was  a  hot  night.  Sweat  prickled  on  Bart- 
ley's  forehead.  His  nose  itched.  He  lit  a 
cigar.  It  tasted  bitter,  so  he  asked  Cheyenne 
for  tobacco  and  papers,  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 
He  inhaled  a  whiff,  and  felt  more  comfortable. 
The  Mexicans,  who  had  ceased  to  talk  when 
Bartley  and  Cheyenne  entered,  were  now  at  it 
again,  making  plenty  of  noise. 


SAN  ANDREAS  TOWN  179 

Cheyenne  hummed  to  himself  and  tapped  the 
floor  with  his  boot-heel.  "She's  a  funny  old 
world,"  he  declared. 

Bartley  nodded  and  blew  a  smoke-ring. 

"Miss  Dorry's  sure  a  interestin'  girl,"  as- 
serted Cheyenne. 

Bartley  nodded  again. 

"Kind  of  young  and  innocent-like." 

Again  Bartley  nodded. 

"It  ain't  a  bad  country  to  settle  down  in,  for 
folks  that  likes  to  settle,"  said  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  glanced  sharply  at  his  companion. 
Cheyenne  was  gazing  straight  ahead.  His  face 
was  unreadable. 

"Now  if  I  was  the  settlin'  kind — "  He  paused 
and  slowly  turned  toward  Bartley.  "A  man 
could  raise  alfalfa  and  chickens  and  kids." 

"Go  ahead,"  laughed  Bartley. 

"I'm  goin'- — to-morrow  mornin'.  And  you 
say  you  figure  to  stay  here  a  spell?" 

"Oh,  just  a  few  days.  I  imagine  I  shall  grow 
tired  of  it.  But  to-night,  I  feel  pretty  well 
satisfied  to  stay  right  where  I  am." 

Cheyenne  rose  and  strode  to  the  bar.  After 
a  short  argument  with  the  proprietor,  he  re- 
turned with  a  bottle  and  glasses.  Bartley 
raised  his  eyebrows  questioningly. 


180  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Once  in  a  while — "  And  Cheyenne  ges- 
tured toward  the  bottle. 

"It's  powerful  stuff,"  said  Bartley. 

"We  ain't  far  from  the  hotel,"  declared  Chey- 
enne. And  he  filled  their  glasses. 

"This  ought  to  be  the  last,  for  me,"  said 
Bartley,  drinking.  "But  don't  let  that  make 
any  difference  to  you." 

Cheyenne  drank  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
He  leaned  back  and  gazed  at  the  opposite  wall. 
Bartley  vaguely  realized  that  the  Mexicans 
were  chattering,  that  two  or  three  persons  had 
come  in,  and  that  the  atmosphere  was  heavy 
with  tobacco  smoke.  He  unbuttoned  his  shirt- 
collar. 

Presently  Cheyenne  twisted  round  in  his 
chair.  "Remember  Little  Jim,  back  at  the 
Hastings  ranch?" 

"I  should  say  so!  It  would  be  difficult  to 
forget  him." 

"Miss  Dorry  thinks  a  heap  of  that  kid." 

"She  seems  to." 

"Now,  I  ain't  drunk,"  Cheyenne  declared 
solemnly.  "I  sure  wish  I  was.  You  know 
Little  Jim  is  my  boy.  Well,  his  ma  is  livin' 
over  to  Laramie.  She  writ  to  me  to  come 
back  to  her,  onct.  I  reckon  Sears  got  tired  of 


SAN  ANDREAS   TOWN  181 

her.  She  lived  with  him  a  spell  after  she  quit 
me.  Folks  say  Sears  treated  her  like  a  dog.  I 
guess  I  wasn't  man  enough,  when  I  heard 
that—" 

"You  mean  Panhandle  Sears — at  Antelope?" 

"Him." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Bartley  slowly.  "And  that 
crap  game,  at  Antelope — I  see!" 

"If  Panhandle  had  a-jumped  me,  instead  of 
you,  that  night,  I'd  'a'  killed  him.  Do  you 
know  why  Wishful  stepped  in  and  put  Sears 
down?  Wishful  did  that  so  that  there  wouldn't 
be  a  killin'.  That's  the  second  time  Sears  has 
had  his  chance  to  git  me,  but  he  won't  take  that 
chance.  That's  the  second  time  we  met  up 
since — since  my  wife  left  me.  The  third  time 
it'll  be  lights  out  for  somebody.  I  ain't  drunk." 

"Then  Sears  has  got  a  yellow  streak?" 

"Any  man  that  uses  a  woman  rough  has. 
When  Jimmy's  ma  left  us,  I  reckon  I  went 
loco.  It  wa'n't  just  her  leavin9  us.  But  when 
I  heard  she  had  took  up  with  Sears,  and  knowin' 
what  he  was — I  just  quit.  I  was  workin'  down 
here  at  the  ranch,  then.  I  went  up  North, 
figurin'  to  kill  him.  Folks  thought  I  was  yellow, 
for  not  killin'  him.  They  think  so  right  now. 
Mebby  I  am. 


182  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I  worked  up  North  a  spell,  but  I  couldn't 
stay.  So  I  lit  out  and  come  down  South  again. 
First  time  I  met  up  with  Sears  was  over  on 
the  Tonto.  He  stepped  up  and  slapped  my 
face,  in  front  of  a  crowd,  in  the  Lone  Star.  And 
I  took  it.  But  I  told  him  I'd  sure  see  him 
again,  and  give  him  another  chance  to  slap  my 
face. 

"You  see,  Panhandle  Sears  is  that  kind- — 
he's  got  to  work  himself  up  to  kill  a  man.  And 
over  there  at  Antelope,  that  night,  he  just  about 
knowed  that  if  he  lifted  a  finger,  I'd  git  him. 
He  figured  to  start  a  ruckus,  and  then  git  me 
in  the  mix-up.  Wishful  was  on,  and  he  stopped 
that  chance.  Folks  think  that  because  I  come 
ridin'  and  singin'  and  joshin'  that  I  ain't  no 
account.  Mebby  I  ain't." 

Cheyenne  poured  another  drink  for  himself. 
Bartley  declined  to  drink  again.  He  was  think- 
ing of  this  squalid  tragedy  and  of  its  possible 
outcome.  The  erstwhile  sprightly  Cheyenne 
held  a  new  significance  for  the  Easterner.  That 
a  man  could  ride  up  and  down  the  trails  singing, 
and  yet  carry  beneath  it  all  the  grim  intent  some 
day  to  kill  a  man — • 

Bartley  felt  that  Cheyenne  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  stranger,  an  unknown  quantity,  a  sinister 


SAN  ANDREAS'  TOWN  183 

jester,  in  fact,  a  dangerous  man.  He  leaned 
forward  and  touched  Cheyenne's  arm. 

"Why  not  give  up  the  idea  of— er — getting 
Sears;  and  settle  down,  and  make  a  home  for 
Little  Jim?" 

"When  Aunt  Jane  took  him,  the  understand- 
in'  was  that  Jimmy  was  to  be  raised  respectable, 
which  is  the  same  as  tellin'  me  that  I  don't 
have  nothin'  to  do  with  raisin'  him.  Me,  I 
got  to  keep  movin'." 

Bartley  turned  toward  the  doorway  as  a  tall 
figure  loomed  through  the  haze  of  tobacco 
smoke:  a  gaunt,  heavy -boned  man,  bearded 
and  limping  slightly.  With  him  were  several 
companions,  booted  and  spurred;  evidently  just 
in  from  a  hard  ride. 

Cheyenne  turned  to  Bartley.  "That's  Bill 
Sneed — and  his  crowd.  I  ain't  popular  with 
'em — right  now." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  MESCAL 

'  THE  man  who  had  your  horses? "  queried 
Bartley. 

Cheyenne  nodded.  "The  one  at  the  end  of 
the  bar.  The  hombre  next  to  him  is  Lawson, 
who  claims  he  bought  my  bosses  from  a  Mexican, 
down  here.  Lawson  is  the  one  that  is  huntin* 
trouble.  Sneed  don't  care  iiothin'  about  a  couple 
of  cayuses.  He  won't  start  anything.  He's 
here  just  to  back  up  Lawson  if  things  git  inter- 
estin'." 

"But  what  can  they  do?  We're  here,  in 
town,  minding  our  own  business.  They  know 
well  enough  that  Panhandle  stole  your  horses. 
And  you  said  the  people  in  San  Andreas  don't 
like  Sneed  a  whole  lot." 

"Because  they're  scared  of  him  and  his 
crowd.  And  we're  strangers  here.  It's  just 
me  and  Lawson,  this  deal.  Sneed  is  sizin'  you 
up,  back  of  his  whiskers,  right  now.  He's 
tryin'  to  figure  out  who  you  are.  Sneed  ain't 
one  to  run  into  the  law  when  they's  anybody 
lookin'  on.  He  works  different. 


THAT  MESCAL  185 

"Now,  while  he  is  figurin',  you  just  git  up 
easy  and  step  out  and  slip  over  to  the  barn 
and  saddle  up  Joshua.  I'm  goin'  to  need  him. 
Take  the  tie-rope  off  Filaree  and  leave  him  loose 
in  his  stall.  Just  say  'Adios'  to  me  when  you 
git  up,  like  you  was  goin'  back  to  the  hotel.  And 
if  you'll  settle  what  we  owe — " 

"That's  all  right.  But  my  feet  aren't  cold, 
yet." 

"You  figure  to  stay  in  town  a  spell,  don't 
you?  Well,  I  figure  to  leave,  right  soon.  I'm 
tryin'  to  dodge  trouble.  It's  your  chanct  to 
help  out." 

"Why  can't  we  both  walk  out?" 

"  'Cause  they'd  follow  us.  They  won't  fol- 
low you." 

Bartley  glanced  at  the  men  ranged  along  the 
bar,  rose,  and,  shaking  hands  with  Cheyenne, 
strode  out,  nodding  pleasantly  to  the  one-eyed 
proprietor  as  he  went. 

Sneed  eyed  the  Easterner  sharply,  and  nudged 
one  of  his  men  as  Bartley  passed  through  the 
doorway. 

"Just  step  out  and  see  where  he  goes,  Hull," 
he  ordered  in  an  undertone.  "Keep  him  in 
sight." 

The  man  spoken  to  hitched  up  his  chaps, 


186  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

and,  turning  to  finish  his  drink,  strolled  out 
casually. 

Bartley  saw  a  row  of  saddle-horses  tied  at 
the  rail.  He  noticed  the  slickers  on  the  saddles 
and  the  carbines  under  the  stirrup  leathers. 
It  was  evident  that  the  riders  were  not  entirely 
on  pleasure  bent.  He  crossed  the  street,  wak- 
ened the  stableman,  paid  the  bill,  and  saddled 
Joshua.  Then  he  took  the  tie-rope  off  Filaree, 
as  Cheyenne  had  directed.  Bartley  led  Joshua 
through  the  barn  to  the  back,  where  he  was 
tying  him  to  a  wagon  wheel  when  a  figure 
loomed  up  in  the  semi-darkness. 

"Ridin',  stranger?" 

The  figure  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  Bartley  at  once  recognized  him  as 
one  of  Sneed's  men.  Resenting  the  other's 
question  and  his  attitude  of  easy  familiarity, 
Bartley  ignored  his  presence. 

"Hard  of  hearin'?"  queried  Hull. 

"Rather." 

"I  said:    Was  you  ridin'?" 

"Yesterday,"  replied  Bartley. 

Hull  blew  a  whiff  of  smoke  in  Bartley's  face. 
It  seemed  casual,  but  was  intended  as  an  insult. 
Bartley  flushed,  and  realizing  that  the  other 
was  there  to  intercept  any  action  on  his  part  to 


THAT  MESCAL  187 

aid  Cheyenne,  he  dropped  Joshua's  reins,  and 
without  the  slightest  warning  of  his  intent — • 
in  fact,  Hull  thought  the  Easterner  was  stooping 
to  pick  up  the  reins- — -Hartley  launched  a 
haymaker  that  landed  with  a  loud  crack 
on  Hull's  unguarded  chin,  and  Hull's  head 
snapped  back.  Bartley  jumped  forward  and 
shot  another  one  to  the  same  spot.  Hull's 
head  hit  the  edge  of  the  doorway  as  he  went 
down. 

He  lay  there,  inert,  a  queer  blur  in  the  half- 
light.  Bartley  licked  his  skinned  knuckles. 

"He  may  resent  this,  when  he  wakes  up," 
he  murmured.  "I  believe  I'll  tie  him." 

Bartley  took  Joshua's  tie-rope  and  bound  Mr. 
Hull's  arms  and  legs,  amateurishly,  but  securely. 
Then  he  strode  through  to  the  front  of  the  barn. 
He  could  hear  loud  talking  in  the  saloon  opposite 
and  thought  he  could  distinguish  Cheyenne's 
voice.  Bartley  wondered  what  would  happen 
in  there,  and  when  things  would  begin  to  pop, 
if  there  was  to  be  any  popping.  He  felt  fool- 
ishly helpless  and  inefficient — rather  a  poor  ex- 
cuse for  a  partner,  just  then.  Yet  there  was 
that  husky  rider,  back  there  in  the  straw.  He 
was  even  more  helpless  and  inefficient.  Bartley 
licked  his  knuckles,  and  grinned. 


188  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"There  must  have  been  a  little  mescal  in 
that  second  punch,"  he  thought.  "I  never  hit 
so  hard  in  my  life." 

The  stableman  had  retired  to  his  bunk — a 
habit  of  night  stablemen.  The  stable  was  dark 
and  still,  save  for  the  munching  of  the  horses. 
In  the  saloon  across  the  way  Cheyenne  was 
facing  Sneed  and  his  men,  alone.  Bartley  felt 
like  a  quitter.  Indecision  irritated  him,  and 
curiosity  urged  him  to  do  something  other  than 
to  stand  staring  at  the  saloon  front.  He  recalled 
his  plan  to  sojourn  in  San  Andreas  a  few  days, 
and  incidently  to  ride  over  to  the  Lawrence 
ranch — frankly,  to  have  another  visit  with 
Dorothy.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  That 
idea  now  seemed  insignificant,  compared  with 
the  present  possibilities. 

"I'm  a  free  agent,"  he  soliloquized.  "I  think 
I'll  take  a  hand  in  this,  myself." 

He  snapped  his  fingers  as  he  turned  and 
hastened  to  Dobe's  stall.  He  led  Dobe  out 
to  the  stable  floor,  got  his  saddle  from  the 
office,  told  the  sleepy  stableman  that  he  was 
going  to  take  a  little  ride,  and  saddled  Dobe. 
And  he  led  Dobe  back  to  where  Joshua  was 
tied.  He  had  forgotten  his  victim  on  the  floor, 
for  a  moment,  but  was  aware  of  him  when  he 


THAT  MESCAL  189 

stumbled  over  him  in  the  dark.  The  other 
mumbled  and  struggled  faintly. 

"I  left  your  gun  in  the  wagon-box,"  said 
Bartley.  "I  wouldn't  move  around  much,  if 
I  were  you.  One  of  the  horses  might  step  on 
your  face  and  hurt  his  foot." 

Mr.  Hull  was  not  pleased  at  this,  and  he 
said  as  much.  Bartley  tied  Dobe  to  the  back  of 
the  wagon. 

"Just  keep  your  eye  on  the  horses  a  minute," 
he  told  Hull.  "I'll  be  back  soon." 

Bartley  felt  unusually  and  inexplicably  elated. 
He  had  not  realized  the  extreme  potency  of 
mescal.  The  proprietor  of  the  hotel  was  mildly 
surprised  when  Bartley,  remarking  that  he  had 
been  called  away  unexpectedly,  paid  the  hotel 
bill.  Bartley  hastened  back  to  the  stable. 
Across  the  way  the  horses  of  the  mountain  men 
drowsed  in  the  faint  lamplight.  Turning, 
Bartley  saw  Joshua  and  Dobe  dimly  silhouetted 
in  the  opening  at  the  far  end  of  the  stable. 
Cheyenne  was  still  in  the  saloon. 

Bartley  grinned.  "It  might  help,"  he  said 
as  he  stepped  across  the  street.  Taking  down 
the  rope  from  the  nearest  horse,  he  tied  the 
end  of  the  rope  in  the  horse's  bridle  and  threaded 
the  end  through  the  bridles  of  all  five  horses, 


100  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

tying  the  loose  end  to  the  last  horse's  bridle^ 
"Just  like  stringing  fish!"  he  murmured  soul- 
fully.  "When  those  gentlemen  from  the  in- 
terior try  to  mount,  there'll  be  something  doing." 

He  had  just  turned  to  walk  back  to  the 
stable  when  he  heard  a  shot,  and  the  lighted 
doorway  of  the  saloon  became  suddenly  dark. 
Without  waiting  to  see  what  would  happen  next, 
Bartley  ran  to  the  rear  of  the  stable  and  untied 
the  horses.  Behind  him  he  heard  the  quick 
trample  of  feet.  He  turned.  A  figure  appeared 
in  the  front  doorway  of  the  stable,  a  figure  that 
dashed  toward  him,  and,  with  a  leap  and  a 
swing,  mounted  Joshua  and  spurred  out  and 
down  the  alley  back  of  the  building. 

Bartley  grabbed  for  his  own  stirrup,  missed 
it,  grabbed  again  and  swung  up.  Dobe  leaped 
after  the  other  horse,  turned  at  the  end  of  the 
alley,  and,  reaching  into  a  long,  swinging  gallop, 
pounded  across  the  night-black  open.  San 
Andreas  had  but  one  street.  The  backs  of  its 
buildings  opened  to  space. 

Ahead,  Cheyenne  thundered  across  a  narrow 
bridge  over  an  arroyo.  Dobe  lifted  and  leaped 
forward,  as  though  in  a  race.  From  behind 
came  the  quick  patter  of  hoofs.  One  of  Sneed's 
men  had  evidently  managed  to  get  his  horse 


THAT  MESCAL  191 

loose  from  the  reata.  A  solitary  house,  far  out 
on  the  level,  flickered  past.  Bartley  glanced 
back.  The  house  door  opened.  A  ray  of  yellow 
light  shot  across  the  road. 

"Hey,  Cheyenne!"  called  Bartley. 

But  Cheyenne's  little  buckskin  was  drum- 
ming down  the  night  road  at  a  pace  that  aston- 
ished the  Easterner.  Dobe  seemed  to  be  doing 
his  best,  yet  he  could  not  overtake  the  buckskin. 
Behind  Bartley  the  patter  of  hoofs  sounded 
nearer.  Bartley  thought  he  heard  Cheyenne 
call  back  to  him.  He  leaned  forward,  but  the 
drumming  of  hoofs  deadened  all  other  sound. 

They  were  on  a  road,  now — a  road  that 
ran  south  across  the  spaces,  unwinding  itself 
like  a  tape  flung  from  a  reel.  Suddenly  Chey- 
enne pulled  to  a  stop.  Bartley  raced  up,  bracing 
himself  as  the  big  cow-horse  set  up  in  two 
jumps. 

"I  thought  you  was  abidin'  in  San  Andreas/' 
said  Cheyenne. 

"There's  some  one  coming!"  warned  Bart- 
ley, breathing  heavily. 

"And  his  name  is  Filaree,"  declared  Chey- 
enne. "You  sure  done  a  good  job.  Let's  keep 
movin'."  And  Cheyenne  let  Joshua  out  as 
Filaree  drew  alongside  and  nickered  shrilly. 


193  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Now  I  reckon  we  better  hold  'em  in  a  little," 
said  Cheyenne  after  they  had  gone,  perhaps,  a 
half-mile.  "We  got  a  good  start." 

They  slowed  the  horses  to  a  trot.  Filaree 
kept  close  to  Joshua's  flank.  A  gust  of  warm 
air  struck  their  faces. 

"Ain't  got  time  to  shake  hands,  pardner," 
said  Cheyenne.  "Know  where  you're  goin'?" 

"South,"  said  Bartley. 

"Correc'.    And  I  don't  hear  no  hosses  behind 


us." 


"I  strung  them  together  on  a  rope,"  said 
Bartley. 

"How's  that?" 

'"I  tied  Sneed's  horses  together,  with  a  rope. 
Ran  it  through  the  bridles — -like  stringing  fish. 
Not  according  to  Hoyle,  but  it  seems  to  have 
worked." 

Cheyenne  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  quite 
get  the  significance  of  Bartley's  statement. 

"Any  one  get  hurt?"  queried  Bartley  pres- 
ently. 

"Nope.  I  spoiled  a  lamp,  and  I  reckon  I  hit 
somebody  on  the  head,  in  the  dark,  comin' 
through.  Seems  like  I  stepped  on  somethin' 
soft,  out  there  back  of  the  barn.  It  grunted 
like  a  human.  But  I  didn't  stop  to  look." 


THAT  MESCAL  193 

"I  had  to  do  it,"  declared  Bartley  am- 
biguously. 

"Had  to  do  what?" 

"Punch  a  fellow  that  wanted  to  know  what 
I  was  doing  with  your  horse.  I  let  him  have 
it  twice." 

"Then  you  didn't  hit  him  with  your  gun?" 

"No.  I  wish  I  had.  I've  got  a  fist  like  a 
boiled  ham.  I  can  feel  it  swell,  right  now." 

"That  there  mescal  is  sure  pow'ful  stuff." 

"Thanks!"  said  Bartley  succinctly. 

"Got  a  kick  like  white  lightin',"  said  Chey- 
eane. 

"And  I  paid  our  hotel  bill,"  continued  Bart- 
ley. 

"Well,  that  was  mighty  thoughtful.  I  plumb 
forgot  it." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JOE  SCOTT 

JUST  before  daybreak  Cheyenne  turned  from 
the  road  and  picked  his  way  through  the  scat- 
tered brush  to  a  gulch  in  the  western  foothills. 
Cheyenne's  horses  seemed  to  know  the  place, 
when  they  stopped  at  a  narrow,  pole  gate 
across  the  upper  end  of  the  gulch,  for  on  beyond 
the  gate  the  horses  again  stopped  of  their  own 
accord.  Bartley  could  barely  discern  the  out- 
lines of  a  cabin.  Cheyenne  hallooed. 

A  muffled  answer  from  the  cabin,  then  a 
twinkle  of  light,  then  the  open  doorway  framing 
a  gigantic  figure. 

"That  you,  Shy?"  queried  the  figure. 

"Me  and  a  friend." 

"You're  kind  of  early,"  rumbled  the  figure  as 
the  riders  dismounted. 

"Shucks!  You'd  be  gettin'  up,  anyway,  right 
soon.  We  come  early  so  as  not  to  delay  your 
breakfast." 

In  the  cabin,  Cheyenne  and  the  big  man 
shook  hands.  Bartley  was  introduced.  The 
man  was  a  miner,  named  Joe  Scott. 


JOE  SCOTT  195 

"Joe,  here,  is  a  minin'  man  —  when  he  ain't 
runnin'  a  all-night  lunch-stand,"  explained  Chey- 
enne. "He  can't  work  his  placer  when  it's  dark, 
but  he  sure  can  work  a  skillet  and  a  coffee-mill." 

"What  you  been  up  to?"  queried  the  giant 
slowly,  as  he  made  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  set 
about  getting  breakfast. 

"Up  to  Clubfoot  Sneed's  place,  to  get  a  couple 
of  hosses  that  belonged  to  me.  He  was  kind  of 
hostile.  Followed  us  down  to  San  Andreas 
and  done  spoiled  our  night's  rest.  But  I  got 
the  hosses." 

"Hosses  seems  to  be  his  failin',"  said  the 
big  man. 

"So  some  folks  say.    I'm  one  of  'em." 

"How  are  the  folks  up  Antelope  way?" 

"Kinda  permanent,  as  usual.  I  hear  Pan- 
handle's drifted  south  again.  Wishful,  he 
shoots  craps,  reg'lar." 

Scott  nodded,  shifted  the  coffee-pot  and  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk.  "Got  any  smok- 
in'?"  he  queried  presently. 

Bartley  offered  the  miner  a  cigar.  "I'm 
afraid  it's  broken,"  apologized  Bartley. 

"That's  all  right.  I  was  goin'  to  town  this 
mornin',  to  get  some  tobacco  and  grub.  But 
this  will  help."  And  doubling  the  cigar  Scott 


196  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

thrust  it  in  his  mouth  and  chewed  it  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction. 

The  gray  edge  of  dawn  crept  into  the 
room.  Scott  blew  out  the  light  and  opened  the 
door. 

Bartley  felt  suddenly  sleepy  and  he  drowsed 
and  nodded,  realizing  that  Scott  and  Cheyenne 
were  talking,  and  that  the  faint  aroma  of  coffee 
drifted  toward  him,  mingling  with  the  chill,  fresh 
air  of  morning.  He  pulled  himself  together  and 
drank  the  coffee  and  ate  some  bacon.  From 
time  to  time  he  glanced  at  Scott,  fascinated  by 
the  miner's  tremendous  forearms,  his  mighty 
chest  and  shoulders.  Even  Cheyenne,  who  was  a 
fair-sized  man,  appeared  like  a  boy  beside  the 
miner.  Bartley  wondered  that  such  tremendous 
strength  should  be  isolated,  hidden  back  there 
behind  the  foothills.  Yet  Scott  himself,  easy- 
going and  dryly  humorous,  was  evidently  con- 
tent right  where  he  was. 

Later  the  miner  showed  Bartley  about  the 
diggings,  quietly  proud  of  his  establishment,  and 
enthusiastic  about  the  unfailing  supply  of  water 
— -in  fact,  Scott  talked  more  about  water  than 
he  did  about  gold.  Bartley  realized  that  the 
big  miner  would  have  been  a  misfit  in  town,  that 
he  belonged  in  the  rugged  hills  from  which  he 


JOE  SCOTT  197 

wrested  a  scant  six  dollars  a  day  by  herculean 
toil. 

In  a  past  age,  Scott  would  have  been  a  master 
builder  of  castles  or  of  triremes  or  a  maker  of 
armor,  but  never  a  fighting  man.  It  was  evident 
that  the  miner  was,  despite  his  great  strength,  a 
man  of  peace.  Hartley  rather  regretted,  for 
some  romantic  reason  or  other,  that  the  big 
miner  was  not  a  fighting  man. 

Yet  when  they  returned  to  the  shack,  where 
Cheyenne  sat  smoking,  Hartley  learned  that  Big 
Joe  Scott  had  a  reputation  in  his  own  country. 
That  was  when  Scott  suggested  that  they  needed 
sleep.  He  spread  a  blanket-roll  on  the  cabin 
floor  for  Cheyenne  and  offered  Hartley  his  bunk. 
Then  Scott  picked  up  his  rifle  and  strode  across 
to  a  shed.  Cheyenne  pulled  off  his  boots, 
stretched  out  on  the  blanket-roll,  and  sighed 
comfortably.  Hartley  could  see  the  big  miner 
busily  twisting  something  in  his  hands,  some- 
thing that  looked  like  a  leather  bag  from  which 
occasional  tiny  spurts  of  silver  gleamed  and 
trickled.  Hartley  wondered  what  Scott  was 
doing.  He  asked  Cheyenne. 

"He's  squeezin'  'quick.' 3  And  Cheyenne 
explained  the  process  of  squeezing  quicksilver 
through  a  chamois  skin.  "And  I'm  glad  it  ain't 


198  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

my  neck,"  added  Cheyenne.  "Joe  killed  a  man, 
with  his  bare  hands,  onct.  That's  why  he  never 
gets  in  a  fight,  nowadays.  He  dassn't.  'Course, 
he  had  to  kill  that  man,  or  get  killed." 

"I  noticed  he  picked  up  his  rifle,"  said  Bartley. 

"Nobody '11  disturb  our  sleep,"  said  Cheyenne 
drowsily. 

The  afternoon  shadows  were  long  when  Bart- 
ley  awakened.  Through  the  doorway  he  could 
see  Cheyenne  out  in  the  shed,  talking  with  Joe 
Scott. 

"Hello!"  called  Bartley,  sitting  up.  "Lost 
any  horses,  Cheyenne?" 

Presently  Scott  and  Cheyenne  came  over  to 
the  cabin. 

"I'm  cook,  this  trip,"  stated  Cheyenne  as  he 
bustled  about  the  kitchen.  "I  reckon  Joe  needs 
a  rest.  He  ain't  lookin'  right  strong." 

An  early  supper,  and  the  three  men  for- 
gathered outside  the  cabin  and  smoked  and 
talked  until  long  after  dark.  Cheyenne  had 
told  Scott  of  the  happenings  since  leaving 
Antelope,  and  jokingly  he  referred  to  San 
Andreas  and  Bartley's  original  plan  of  staying 
there  awhile. 

Bartley  nodded.     "And  now  that  the  smoke 


JOE  SCOTT  199 

has  blown  away,  I  think  I'll  go  back  and  finish 
my  visit,"  he  said. 

Cheyenne's  face  expressed  surprise  and  dis- 
appointment.   "Honest?"  he  queried. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Bartley,  and  it  was  a  hard 
question  to  answer. 

After  all,  Bartley  had  stuck  to  him  when 
trouble  seemed  inevitable,  reasoned  Cheyenne. 
Now  the  Easterner  felt  free  to  do  as  he  pleased. 
And  why  shouldn't  he?  There  had  been  no 
definite  or  even  tentative  agreement  as  to 
when  they  would  dissolve  partnership.  And 
Hartley's  evident  determination  to  carry  out 
his  original  plan  struck  Cheyenne  as  indica- 
tive of  considerable  spirit.  It  was  plain  that 
Sneed's  unexpected  presence  in  San  Andreas 
had  not  affected  Bartley  very  much.  With 
a  tinge  of  malice,  born  of  disappointment, 
Cheyenne  suggested  to  Bartley  that  the 
man  he  had  knocked  out,  back  of  the 
livery  barn,  would  no  doubt  be  glad  to  see 
him  again. 

Bartley  turned  to  Joe  Scott.  "He's  trying  to 
'Out-West'  me  a  bit,  isn't  he?" 

Scott  laughed  heartily.  "Cheyenne  is  getting 
tired  of  rambling  up  and  down  the  country 
alone.  He  wants  a  pardner.  Seems  he  likes  your 


200  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

company,  from  what  he  says.  But  you  can't 
take  him  serious.  He'll  be  singin'  that  ever- 
lastin'  trail  song  of  his  next." 

"He  hasn't  sung  much,  recently." 

Cheyenne  bridled  and  snorted  like  a  colt. 
"Huh!  Just  try  this  on  your  piano."  And 
seemingly  improvising,  he  waved  his  arm  to- 
ward the  burro  corral. 

One  time  I  had  a  right  good  pal, 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along; 
But  he  quit  me  cold  for  a  little  ranch  gal, 

Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along. 

And  now  he's  took  to  pitchin*  hay 
On  a  rancho  down  San  Andreas  way; 
He's  done  tied  up  and  he's  got  to  stay; 
Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along. 

"I  was  just  learnin'  him  the  ropes,  and  he 
quit  me  cold,"  complained  Cheyenne,  appealing 
to  Scott. 

"He  aims  to  keep  out  of  trouble,"  suggested 
Scott. 

"I  ain't  got  no  friends,"  said  Cheyenne,  grin- 
ning. 

"Thanks  for  that,"  said  Scott. 


JOE  SCOTT  201 

Cheyenne  reached  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out 
the  dice.  His  eyes  brightened.  He  rattled  the 
dice  and  shot  them  across  the  hardpacked 
ground  near  the  doorstep.  Then  he  struck  a 
match  to  see  what  he  had  thrown.  "I'm  hittin' 
the  road  five  minutes  after  six,  to-morrow 
morninY '  he  declared,  as  he  picked  up  the  dice. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DORRY    COMES    TO    TOWN 

AT  six,  next  morning,  Bartley  and  Scott  were 
on  their  way  to  San  Andreas,  Bartley  riding 
Dobe  and  Scott  hazing  two  pack-burros.  They 
took  a  hill  trail,  which,  Scott  explained,  was 
shorter  by  miles  than  the  valley  road  which 
Cheyenne  and  Bartley  had  taken  to  the  gulch. 
Cheyenne  was  forced  to  stay  at  the  miner's 
cabin  until  Scott  returned  with  the  pack-saddle 
and  outfit  left  in  the  livery.  Scott  was  after 
supplies  and  tobacco. 

At  first  Cheyenne  had  thought  of  going  along 
with  them.  But  he  reconsidered.  He  did  not 
care  to  risk  being  arrested  in  San  Andreas  for 
having  disturbed  the  peace.  If  the  authorities 
should  happen  to  detain  him,  there  would  be  one 
broken  head,  one  broken  lamp,  and  possibly  five 
br  six  witnesses  as  evidence  that  he  had  been  the 
aggressor  in  the  saloon.  Sneed  and  his  men 
would  swear  to  anything,  and  the  owner  of  the 
saloon  would  add  his  bit  of  evidence.  Bartley 
himself  was  liable  to  arrest  for  assault  and  bat- 


DORRY  COMES  TO  TOWN  203 

tery  should  Hull  lodge  a  complaint  against  him. 
Incidentally,  Hull  had  been  found  by  the  stable- 
man, curiously  roped  and  tied  and  his  lower  jaw 
somewhat  out  of  plumb. 

Hartley  and  Scott  arrived  in  San  Andreas 
about  noon,  saw  to  their  stock  and  had  dinner 
together.  Bartley  engaged  a  room  at  the  hotel. 
Scott  bought  supplies.  Then,  unknown  to 
Bartley,  Scott  hunted  up  the  town  marshal  and 
told  him  that  the  Easterner  was  a  friend  of  his. 
The  town  marshal  took  the  hint.  Scott 
assured  the  marshal  that,  if  Sneed  or  his  men 
made  any  trouble  in  San  Andreas,  he  would 
gladly  come  over  and  help  the  marshal  estab- 
lish peace.  Cheyenne's  name  was  not  men- 
tioned. 

An  hour  later  Scott  appeared  in  front  of  the 
hotel  with  his  burros  packed.  Bartley,  loafing 
on  the  veranda,  rose  and  stepped  out. 

"If  you  got  time/'  said  Scott,  "you  might 
walk  along  with  me,  out  to  the  edge  of  town." 

Bartley  wondered  what  Scott  had  in  mind, 
but  he  agreed  to  the  suggestion  at  once. 

Together  they  trudged  through  the  sleepy 
town  until  they  reached  the  open. 

"I  guess  you  can  find  your  way  back,"  said 
Scott,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "And,  say,  it's  a  good 


204  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

idea  not  to  pack  a  shootin'-iron — and  let  folks 
know  you  don't  pack  one." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Bartley, 

"Ride  over  to  my  camp,  any  time,  and  if  I'm 
not  there,  just  make  yourself  to  home."  And 
the  big  miner  turned  and  started  his  burros  to- 
ward the  hills. 

"Give  my  regards  to  Cheyenne,"  called 
Bartley. 

The  miner  nodded. 

On  his  way  back  through  town,  Bartley 
wondered  why  the  miner  had  asked  him  to  take 
that  walk.  Then  suddenly  he  thought  of  a 
reason.  They  had  been  seen  in  San  Andreas, 
walking  and  talking  together.  That  would  in- 
timate that  they  were  friends.  And  a  man 
would  have  to  be  blind,  not  to  realize  that  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  Scott, 
or  one  of  his  friends.  Joe  Scott  never  quarreled ; 
but  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  man  of 
whom  it  was  safe  to  step  around. 

With  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  sitting  in  the  quiet 
of  his  room,  Bartley  spent  the  afternoon  jotting 
down  notes  for  a  story.  He  thought  he  had  ex- 
perienced enough  adventure  to  make  a  good  be- 
ginning. Of  course,  the  love  element  was  lack- 
ing, yet  he  thought  that  might  be  supplied, 


DORRY  COMES  TO  TOWN  205 

later.  He  had  a  heroine  in  mind.  Bartley  laid 
down  his  pencil,  and  sat  back,  shaping  day- 
dreams. It  was  hot  in  the  room.  It  would  be 
cooler  down  on  the  veranda.  Well,  he  would 
finish  his  rough  sketch  of  Cheyenne,  and  then 
step  down  to  the  veranda.  He  caught  himself 
drowsing  over  his  work.  He  sat  up,  scribbled 
a  while,  nodded  sleepily,  and,  finally,  with  his 
head  on  his  arms,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  rattle  of  wagon  wheels  wakened  him.  A 
ranch  team  had  just  pulled  up  to  the  hitch-rail 
in  front  of  the  hotel  and  a  small  boy  was  tying 
the  horses.  The  boy's  hat  seemed  familiar  to 
Bartley.  Then  Bartley  heard  a  voice.  Sud- 
denly he  was  wide  awake.  Little  Jim  was  down 
there,  talking  to  some  one.  Bartley  rose  and 
peered  down.  Little  Jim's  companion  was 
Dorothy.  Bartley  could  not  see  her  face,  be- 
cause of  her  wide  hat-brim.  Stepping  back 
into  the  room,  Bartley  picked  up  his  pencil  and, 
leaning  out  of  the  window,  started  it  rolling 
down  the  gentle  slope  of  the  veranda  roof.  It 
dropped  at  Dorothy's  feet.  She  started  and 
glanced  up.  Bartley  waved  a  greeting  and  dis- 
appeared from  the  window. 

Decently  clothed,  and,  imagining  that  he  was 
in  his  right  mind,  he  hastened  downstairs. 


206  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Little  Jim  expressed  no  surprise  at  seeing 
Bartley,  but  the  youngster's  eyes  were  eager. 
He  shook  hands,  like  a  grown-up.  "Got  that 
twenty-two,  yet?" 

"Haven't  seen  one,  Jimmy.  But  I  won't 
forget." 

"There's  a  brand-new  twenty-two  over  to 
Hodges'  store,  in  the  window,"  declared  Little 
Jim. 

"That  so?  Then  we'll  have  to  walk  over  and 
look  at  it." 

"I  done  looked  at  it  already,"  said  Little  Jim. 

"Well,  then,  let's  go  and  price  it." 

"I  done  priced  it.     It's  twelve-fifty." 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  going  over  and 
buying  it?" 

"Sure!    Is  dad  gone?" 

"Yes.  He  left  here  last  night.  I  thought 
Miss  Gray  was  with  you,"  said  Bartley. 

"Sure !  She  had  to  come  to  town  to  buy  some 
things.  She's  over  to  Hodges'  now." 

Dorothy  had  not  waited  for  him  to  appear. 
Bartley  was  a  bit  piqued.  But  he  asked  himself 
why  should  he  be?  They  were  the  merest 
acquaintances.  True,  they  had  spent  several 
hours  together,  reading  and  discussing  verse. 
But  no  doubt  that  had  been  purely  impersonal, 


DORHY  COMES  TO  TOWN  207 

on  her  part.  With  Little  Jim  as  his  guide, 
Bartley  entered  Hodges'  general  store.  Dorothy 
was  at  the  back  of  the  store  making  purchases. 
Bartley  watched  her  a  moment.  He  felt  a  tug 
at  his  sleeve. 

"The  guns  is  over  on  this  side,"  declared  Little 
Jim. 

"We'll  have  to  wait  until  Mr.  Hodges  gets 
through  waiting  on  Miss  Gray,"  said  Bartley. 

Little  Jim  scampered  across  the  aisle  and 
stood  on  tiptoe  peering  into  a  showcase.  There 
were  pistols,  cheap  watches,  and  a  pair  of  spurs. 

Little  Jim  gazed  a  moment  and  then  shot  over 
to  Dorothy.  "Say,  Dorry,  can't  you  hurry  up? 
Me  and  Mr.  Bartley  are  waitin'  to  look  at  that 
twenty-two  in  the  window." 

"Now,  Jimmy!  Oh,  how  do  you  do!"  And 
Dorothy  greeted  Bartley  with  considerable  poise 
for  a  young  woman  who  was  as  interested  in  the 
Easterner  as  she  was. 

"Don't  let  us  interrupt  you,"  said  Bartley. 
"Our  business  can  wait." 

Little  Jim  scowled,  and  grimaced  at  Dorothy, 
who  excused  herself  to  Bartley  and  went  on 
making  her  purchases.  They  were  really  in- 
significant purchases — some  pins,  some  thread, 
and  a  roll  of  binding  tape.  Insignificant  as  they 


208  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

were,  Hartley  offered  to  carry  them  to  the  wagon 
for  her.  Dorothy  declined  his  offer  and  took 
them  to  the  wagon  herself. 

"Now  for  that  rifle,"  said  Hartley. 

Little  Jim,  itching  all  over  to  get  hold  of  that 
new  and  shining  weapon,  squirmed  as  Hodges 
took  it  from  the  window  and  handed  it  to  Bart- 
ley.  Hartley  examined  it  and  passed  it  over  to 
Little  Jim. 

"Is  that  the  kind  you  wanted?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  her!  Twenty-two,  long  or  short, 
genuwine  repeater."  Jimmy  pretended  to  read 
the  tags  tied  to  the  trigger  guard."Yep!  This 
is  her." 

"And  some  cartridges,"  suggested  Hartley. 

"How  many?"  queried  the  storekeeper. 

"All  you  got,"  said  Little  Jim. 

But  Hartley's  good  nature  was  not  to  be  im- 
posed upon  to  that  extent.  "Give  us  five  boxes, 
Mr.  Hodges." 

"That  cleans  me  out  of  twenty-twos,"  de- 
clared Hodges. 

Jimmy  grinned  triumphantly.  Dorothy  had 
come  in  and  was  viewing  the  purchase  with  some 
apprehension.  She  knew  Little  Jim. 

Bearing  the  rifle  proudly,  Jimmy  marched 
from  the  store.  Dorothy  and  Hartley  followed 


DORRY  COMES  TO  TOWN 

him,  and  Hartley  briefly  outlined  Cheyenne's 
recent  sprightly  exodus  from  San  Andreas. 

"I  heard  about  it,  from  Mr.  Hodges,"  said 
Dorothy.  "And  I  also  noticed  that  you  have 
hurt  your  hand." 

Bartley  glanced  at  his  right  hand — and  then 
at  Dorothy,  who  was  gazing  at  him  curiously.  It 
had  become  common  news  in  town  that  Chey- 
enne Hastings  and  the  Easterner  had  engaged  in 
a  free-for-all  fight  with  the  Sneed  outfit,  and 
that  two  of  the  Sneed  boys  were  laid  up  for 
repairs.  That  was  Mr.  Hodges'  version. 

"I  also  heard  that  you  had  left  town,"  said 
Dorothy. 

Bartley's  egoism  was  slightly  deflated.  Then 
Dorothy  had  come  to  town  to  buy  a  few 
trinkets,  and  not  to  find  out  how  it  fared  with 
him. 

"We  have  to  get  back  before  dark,"  she 
declared. 

"And  you  got  to  drive,"  said  Little  Jim.  "I 
want  to  try  my  new  gun!" 

"Did  you  thank  Mr.  Bartley  for  the  gun?" 

Little  Jim  admitted  that  he  had  forgotten  to 
do  so.  He  stuck  out  his  small  hand.  "Thanks, 
pardner,"  he  said  heartily. 

Bartley  laughed  and  patted  Jimmy's  shoulder 


210  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

•—something  that  Jimmy  utterly  detested,  but 
suffered  nobly,  under  the  circumstances. 

"You  earned  that  gun — and  thank  you  for 
fetching  Miss  Dorry  to  town." 

"Huh!  I  didn't  fetch  her.  She  fetched  me. 
Uncle  Frank  was  comin',  but  Dorry  said  she 
just  had  to  get  some  things — " 

"Jimmy,  please  don't  point  that  gun  at  the 
horses." 

Bartley  felt  better.  He  didn't  know  just  why 
he  felt  better.  Yet  he  felt  more  than  grateful 
to  Little  Jim. 

Nevertheless,  Dorothy  met  Bartley's  eyes 
frankly  as  he  said  farewell.  "I  hope  you  will 
find  time  to  ride  over  to  the  ranch,"  she  said. 
"I'm  sure  Aunt  Jane  would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thanks.     Say,  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  Aunt  Jane  is  nearly 
always  at  home." 

"And  I  got  lots  of  ca'tridges,"  chirruped  Little 
Jim.  "We  can  shoot  all  day." 

"I  wouldn't  miss  such  an  opportunity  for  any- 
thing," declared  Bartley,  yet  he  was  looking  at 
Dorothy  when  he  spoke. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ALONG   THE   FOOTHILLS 

BARTLEY,  enjoying  his  after-dinner  smoke,  felt 
that  he  wanted  to  know  more  about  the  girl  who 
had  invited  him  to  call  at  the  Lawrence  ranch 
again.  He  told  himself  that  he  wanted  to  study 
her;  to  find  out  her  preferences,  her  ideals,  her 
attitude  toward  life,  and  how  the  thought  of 
always  living  in  the  San  Andreas  Valley,  shut 
away  from  the  world,  appealed  to  her. 

With  the  unconscious  intolerance  of  the  city- 
bred  man,  he  did  not  realize  that  her  world  was 
quite  as  interesting  to  her  as  his  world  was  to 
him.  Manlike,  he  also  failed  to  realize  that 
Dorothy  was  studying  him  quite  as  much  as  he 
was  studying  her.  While  he  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  superior,  he  did  feel  that  he  was  more 
worldly-wise  than  this  young  woman  whose  hori- 
zon was  bounded  by  the  hills  edging  the  San 
Andreas  Valley. 

True,  she  seemed  to  have  read  much,  for  one 
as  isolated  as  she,  and  she  had  evidently  appre- 
ciated what  she  had  read.  And  then  there  was 
something  about  her  that  interested  him,  aside 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

from  her  good  looks.  He  had  known  many  girls 
far  more  beautiful.  It  was  not  her  manner, 
which  was  a  bit  constrained,  at  times.  Her 
charm  for  him  was  indefinable.  Somehow,  she 
seemed  different  from  other  girls  he  had  met. 
Bartley  was  himself  responsible  for  this  romantic 
hallucination.  He  saw  her  with  eyes  hungry  for 
the  sympathetic  companionship  of  youth,  espe- 
cially feminine  youth,  for  he  could  talk  with  her 
seriously  about  things  which  the  genial  Chey- 
enne could  hardly  appreciate. 

In  other  words,  Bartley,  whose  aim  was  to 
isolate  himself  from  convention,  was  uncon- 
sciously hungry  for  the  very  conventions  he 
thought  he  was  fleeing  from.  And  in  a  measure, 
Dorothy  Gray  represented  the  life  he  had  left 
behind.  Had  she  been  a  boy,  Bartley  would 
have  enjoyed  talking  with  her — or  him;  but  she 
was  a  girl,  and,  concluded  Bartley,  just  the  type 
of  girl  for  the  heroine  of  a  Western  romance. 
Bartley's  egoism  would  not  allow  him  to  admit 
that  their  tentative  friendship  could  become  any- 
thing more  than  friendship.  And  it  was  upon 
that  understanding  with  himself  that  he  saddled 
up,  next  morning, — why  the  hurry,  with  a  week 
to  spend  in  San  Andreas, — and  set  out  for  the 
Lawrence  ranch,  to  call  on  Aunt  Jane. 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  213 

Purposely  he  timed  his  arrival  to  follow  the 
dinner  hour — dinner  was  at  noon  in  the  ranch 
country — and  was  mildly  lectured  by  Aunt  Jane 
for  not  arriving  earlier.  Uncle  Frank  was  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  ranch,  superintending  the  irri- 
gating. Little  Jim  was  on  the  veranda,  need 
lessly  cleaning  his  new  rifle,  preparatory  to  A 
rabbit  hunt  that  afternoon.  Bartley  was  at 
once  invited  to  participate  in  the  hunt,  and  he 
could  think  of  no  reason  to  decline.  Dorothy, 
however,  was  not  at  the  ranch. 

Little  Jim  scrubbed  his  rifle  with  an  oily  rag, 
and  scowled.  "Got  both  bosses  saddled,  and 
lots  of  ca'tridges — and  Dorry  ain't  here  yet! 
She  promised  to  be  here  right  after  dinner." 

"Was  Miss  Dorry  going  with  you?" 

Jimmy  nodded.  "You  bet!  She's  goin*  to 
take  my  old  twenty-two.  It's  only  a  single- 
shot,"  added  Jimmy  scornfully.  "But  it's  good 
enough  for  a  girl." 

"Isn't  it  early  to  hunt  rabbits?"  queried 
Bartley. 

"Sure!  But  we  got  to  get  there,  clear  over  to 
the  flats.  If  Dorry  don't  come  as  soon  as  I  get 
this  gun  cleaned,  I'm  goin'  anyhow." 

But  Dorothy  appeared  before  Jimmy  could 
carry  out  his  threat  of  leaving  without  her. 


214  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Jimmy,  mounted  on  his  pony,  fretted  to  be  gone, 
while  Dorothy  chatted  a  minute  or  so  with  Aunt 
Jane  and  Bartley.  Finally  they  rode  off,  with 
Jimmy  in  the  lead,  explaining  that  there  would 
be  no  rabbits  on  the  flat  until  at  least  five 
o'clock,  and  in  the  meantime  they  would  ride 
over  to  the  spring  and  pretend  they  were 
starving.  That  is,  Dorothy  and  Bartley  were  to 
pretend  they  were  starving,  while  Jimmy 
scouted  for  meat  and  incidentally  shot  a  couple 
of  Indians  and  returned  with  a  noble  buck  deer 
hanging  across  the  saddle. 

It  was  hot  and  they  rode  slowly.  Far  ahead, 
in  the  dim  southern  distances,  lay  the  hills  that 
walled  the  San  Andreas  Valley  from  the  desert. 

Dorothy  noticed  that  Bartley  gazed  intently 
at  those  hills.  "Cheyenne?"  she  queried,  smiling. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  dreaming.  Yes, 
I  was  thinking  of  him,  and—"  Bartley  gestured 
toward  Little  Jim. 

"Then  you  know?" 

"Cheyenne  told  me,  night  before  last,  in  San 
Andreas." 

"Of  course,  Jimmy  is  far  better  off  right  where 
he  is,"  asserted  Dorothy,  although  Bartley  had 
said  nothing.  "I  don't  think  Cheyenne  will 
ever  settle  down.  At  least,  not  so  long  as  that 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  215 

man  Sears  is  alive.     Of  course,  if  anything  hap- 
pens to  Sears — " 

Dorothy  was  interrupted  by  Little  Jim,  who 
turned  in  the  saddle  to  address  her.  "Say, 
Dorry,  if  you  keep  on  talkin'  out  loud,  the  Injuns 
is  like  to  jump  us!  Scoutin'  parties  don't  keep 
talkin'  when  they're  on  the  trail." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Jimmy,"  laughed  Dorothy. 

"Well,  they  used  to  be  Injuns  in  these  hills, 
once." 

"We'll  behave,"  said  Bartley.  "But  can't  we 
ride  toward  the  foothills  and  get  in  the  shade?" 

"You  just  follow  me,"  said  Little  Jim.  "I 
know  this  country." 

It  was  Little  Jim's  day.  It  was  his  hunt. 
Dorothy  and  Bartley  were  merely  his  guests. 
He  had  allowed  them  to  come  with  him — pos- 
sibly because  he  wanted  an  audience.  Pres- 
ently Little  Jim  reined  his  horse  to  the  left  and 
rode  up  a  dim  trail  among  the  boulders.  By  an 
exceedingly  devious  route  he  led  the  way  to  the 
spring,  meanwhile  playing  the  scout  with  intense 
concentration  on  some  cattle  tracks  which  were 
at  least  a  month  old.  Bartley  recognized  the 
spot.  Cheyenne  and  he  had  camped  there  upon 
their  quest  for  the  stolen  horses.  Little  Jim 
assured  his  charges  that  all  was  safe,  and  b# 


216  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

suggested  that  they  "light  down  and  rest  a 
spell." 

The  contrasting  coolness  of  the  shade  was  in- 
viting. Jimmy  explained  that  there  would  be 
no  rabbits  visible  until  toward  evening.  Below 
and  beyond  them  stretched  the  valley  floor, 
shimmering  in  the  sun.  Behind  them  the  hills 
rose  and  dipped,  rose  and  dipped  again,  finally 
reaching  up  to  the  long  slope  of  the  mother  range. 
Far  above  a  thin,  dark  line  of  timber  showed 
against  the  eastern  sky. 

"Ole  Clubfoot  Sneed  lives  up  there/'  asserted 
Jimmy,  pointing  toward  the  distant  ridge.  "I 
been  up  there." 

"Yes.  And  your  father  saved  you  from  a 
whipping.  Uncle  Frank  was  very  angry." 

"I  got  that  new  rifle,  anyhow,"  declared 
Little  Jim. 

"And  they  lived  happily  ever  afterward,"  said 
Bartley. 

"Huh!  That's  just  like  them  fairy  stories 
that  Dorry  reads  to  me  sometimes.  I  like  stories 
about  Buffalo  Bill  and  Injuns  and  fights.  Fairy 
stories  make  me  tired." 

"Jimmy  thinks  he  is  quite  grown  up,"  teased 
Dorothy. 

"You  ain't  growed  up  yourself,  anyhow,"  re- 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  317 

torted  Jimmy.     "Girls  ain't  growed  up  till  they 
git  married." 

Dorothy  turned  to  Bartley  and  began  to  talk 
about  books  and  writers.  Little  Jim  frowned. 
Why  couldn't  they  talk  about  something  worth 
listening  to?  Jimmy  examined  his  new  rifle, 
sighting  it  at  different  objects,  and  opening  and 
closing  the  empty  magazine.  Finally  he  loaded 
it.  His  companions  of  the  hunt  were  deep  in  a 
discussion  having  to  do  with  Western  stories. 
Jimmy  fidgeted  under  the  constant  stress  of 
keeping  silent.  He  would  have  interrupted 
Dorothy,  willingly  enough,  but  Hartley's  pres- 
ence rather  awed  him. 

Jimmy  felt  that  his  afternoon  was  being 
wasted.  However,  there  was  the  solace  of  the 
new  rifle,  and  plenty  of  ammunition.  While  he 
knew  there  was  no  big  game  in  those  hills,  he 
could  pretend  that  there  was.  He  debated  with 
himself  as  to  whether  he  would  hunt  deer,  bear, 
or  mountain  lion.  Finally  he  decided  he  would 
hunt  bear.  He  waited  for  an  opportunity  to 
leave  without  being  noticed,  and,  carrying  his 
trusty  rifle  at  the  ready,  he  stealthily  disap- 
peared in  the  brush  south  of  the  spring.  A 
young  boy,  with  a  new  gun  and  lots  of  brush  to 
prowl  through!  Under  such  circumstances  the 


f  18  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

optimist  can  imagine  anything  from  rabbits  to 
elephants. 

Some  time  passed  before  Dorothy  missed  him. 
She  called.  There  was  no  reply.  "He  won't  go 
far,"  she  assured  Bartley  who  rose  to  go  and 
look  for  Jimmy. 

Bartley  sat  down  by  the  spring  again.  He 
questioned  Dorothy  in  regard  to  ranch  life,  social 
conditions,  local  ambitions,  and  the  like.  Quite 
impersonally  she  answered  him,  explaining  that 
the  folk  in  the  valley  were  quite  content,  so  long 
as  they  were  moderately  successful.  Of  course, 
the  advent  of  that  funny  little  machine,  the 
automobile,  would  revolutionize  ranch  life, 
eventually.  Why,  a  wealthy  rancher  of  San 
Andreas  had  actually  driven  to  Los  Angeles  and 
back  in  one  of  those  little  machines ! 

Bartley  smiled.  "They've  come  to 'stay,  no 
doubt.  But  I  can't  reconcile  automobiles  with 
saddle-horses  and  buckboards.  I  shan't  have 
an  automobile  snorting  and  snuffing  through 
my  story." 

"Your  story!" 

"I  really  didn't  mean  to  speak  about  it. 
But  the  cat  is  out  of  the  bag.  I'm  making 
notes  for  a  Western  novel,  Miss  Gray.  I  con- 
fess it." 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  219 

"Confession  usually  implies  having  done  some- 
thing wrong,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes.  But  with  you  as  the  heroine  of  my 
story,  I  couldn't  go  very  far  wrong." 

Dorothy  flushed  and  bit  her  lip.  So  that  was 
why  Bartley  had  been  so  attentive  and  polite? 
He  had  been  studying  her,  questioning  her,  men- 
tally jotting  down  what  she  had  said — and  he 
had  not  told  her,  until  that  moment,  that  he  was 
writing  a  story.  She  had  not  known  that  he  was 
a  writer  of  stories. 

"You  might,  at  least,  have  asked  me  if  I  cared 
to  be  a  Western  heroine  in  your  story." 

"Oh,  that  would  have  spoiled  it  all!  Can't 
you  see?  You  would  not  have  been  yourself,  if 
you  had  known.  And  our  visits — •" 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  be  the  heroine  of  your 
story,  Mr.  Bartley." 

"You  really  mean  it?" 

Dorothy  nodded  thoughtfully.  Bartley  knew, 
intuitively,  that  she  was  sincere — -that  she  was 
not  angling  for  flattery.  He  had  thought  that 
he  was  rather  paying  her  a  compliment  in  mak- 
ing her  the  heroine  of  his  first  Western  book;  or, 
at  least,  that  she  would  take  it  as  a  compliment. 
He  frowned,  twisting  a  spear  of  dry  grass  in  his 
fingers. 


220  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Of  course — -that  needn't  make  any  difference 
about  your  calling — on  Aunt  Jane." 

"Thank  you,"  laughed  Bartley.  "And  be- 
cause of  the  privilege  which  I  really  appreciate, 
I'll  agree  to  look  for  another  heroine." 

Dorothy  had  not  expected  just  such  an  answer. 
"In  San  Andreas?"  she  queried. 

"I  can't  say.  I'll  be  lucky  if  I  find  another, 
anywhere,  to  compare — " 

"If  you  had  asked  me,  first,"  interrupted 
Dorothy,  "I  might  have  said  cyes-' 3 

"I'm  sorry  I  didn't.     Won't  you  reconsider?" 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  him  frankly,  steadily.  "I  think  you  took 
me  for  granted.  That  is  what  I  didn't  like." 

"But— I  didn't!  It  didn't  occur  to  me  to 
really  begin  my  story  until  after  I  had  seen  you. 
Of  course  I  knew  I  would  write  a  new  story 
sooner  or  later.  I  hope  you  will  believe  that." 

"Yes.  But  I  think  I  know  why  you  decided 
to  stay  in  San  Andreas,  instead  of  riding  south, 
with  Cheyenne.  Aunt  Jane  and  Little  Jim  and 
your  heroine  were  within  easy  riding  distance." 

"I'll  admit  I  intended  to  write  about  Aunt 
Jane  and  Jimmy.  I  actually  adore  Aunt  Jane. 
And  Little  Jim,  he's  what  one  might  call  an  un- 
known quantity — " 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS 

"He  seems  to  be,  just  now." 

"Oh,  he  won't  go  far,"  said  Bartley,  smiling. 

Dorothy  tossed  her  head.  "And  Cheyenne — " 

"Oh,  he  is  the  moving  figure  in  the  story. 
That  is  not  a  pun,  if  you  please.  I  had  no  idea 
that  Cheyenne  could  actually  hate  any  one,  until 
the  other  night  when  he  told  me  about — Lara- 
mie,  and  that  man  Sears." 

"Did  he  talk  much  about  Sears?" 

"Not  much — but  enough.  Frankly,  I  think 
Cheyenne  will  kill  Sears  if  he  happens  to  meet 
him  again." 

"And  that  will  furnish  the  climax  for  your 
story!"  said  Dorothy  scornfully. 

"Well,  if  it  has  to  happen — •"  Bartley  paused. 

Dorothy's  face  was  troubled.  Finally  she 
rose  and  picked  up  her  gloves  and  hat. 

"I  wish  some  one  or  something  would  stop 
him,"  she  said  slowly.  "He  liked  you.  All 
the  years  he  has  been  riding  up  and  down 
the  country  he  has  ridden  alone,  until 
he  met  you.  I'm  sorry  'you  didn't  go  with 
him." 

"He  did  pretend  that  he  was  disappointed 
when  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  stay  in  San 
Andreas  for  a  while." 

"You  thought  he  was  joking,  but  he  wasn't. 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

We  have  all  tried  to  get  him  to  settle  down;  but 
he  would  not  listen.  If  I  were  a  man — " 

"Then  you  think  I  could  have  influenced 
him?"  queried  Bartley. 

"You  might  have  tried,  at  least." 

"Well,  he's  gone.  And  I'll  have  to  make  the 
best  of  it — -and  also  find  another  heroine,"  said 
Bartley  lightly,  trying  to  make  her  smile. 

"I'll  be  the  heroine  of  your  story,  upon  one 
condition,"  Dorothy  said,  finally. 

"And  that  is—" 

"If  you  will  try  and  find  Cheyenne  and — and 
just  be  a  friend  to  him.  I  suppose  it  sounds 
silly,  and  I  would  not  think  of  asking  you  to  try 
and  keep  him  from  doing  anything  he  decided 
to  do.  But  you  might  happen  to  be  able  to  say 
the  right  word  at  the  right  time." 

"I  hardly  took  myself  as  seriously  as  that,  in 
connection  with  Cheyenne,"  declared  Bartley. 
"I  suppose,  if  I  should  saddle  up  and  ride  south 
to-morrow,  I  might  overtake  him  along  the  road, 
somewhere.  He  travels  slowly." 

"But  you  won't  go,  just  because  I  spoke  as  I 
did?" 

"Not  altogether  because  of  that.  I  like 
Cheyenne." 

Impetuously  Dorothy  stepped  close  to  Bart- 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS 

ley  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "I  knew  you 
were  like  that!  And  what  does  writing  about 
people  amount  to,  when  you  can  really  do  some- 
thing for  them?  It  isn't  just  Cheyenne.  There's 
Little  Jim—" 

"Yes.     But  where  is  Little  Jim?" 

Dorothy  called  in  her  high,  clear  voice.  There 
was  no  answering  halloo.  "His  horse  is  there. 
I  can't  understand — " 

"I'll  look  around  a  bit,"  said  Hartley.  "He's 
probably  ambushing  us,  somewhere,  and  ex- 
pects us  to  be  tremendously  surprised." 

"I'll  catch  up  my  horse,"  said  Dorothy. 
"No,  you  had  better  let  me  catch  him.  He 
knows  me." 

And  Dorothy  stepped  from  the  clearing  round 
the  spring  and  walked  toward  the  horses.  They 
were  grazing  quite  a  ways  off,  up  the  hillside. 

Bartley  recalled  having  glimpsed  Little  Jim 
crawling  through  the  brush  on  the  south  side  of 
the  spring.  No  doubt  Jimmy  had  grown  tired 
of  waiting,  and  had  dropped  down  to  the  mesa  on 
foot  to  hunt  rabbits.  Once  clear  of  the  hillside 
brush,  Bartley  was  able  to  overlook  the  mesa 
below.  Presently  he  discerned  a  black  hat 
moving  along  slowly.  Evidently  the  young 
hunter  was  stalking  game. 


224  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley  hesitated  to  call  out.  He  doubted 
that  Jimmy  could  hear  him  at  that  distance. 
Stepping  down  the  gentle  slope  of  the  hillside 
to  the  road,  Bartley  watched  Jimmy  for  a  while, 
hoping  that  he  would  turn  and  see  him.  But 
Jimmy  was  busy.  "Might  as  well  go  back  and 
get  the  horses  and  ride  over  to  him,"  said 
Bartley. 

He  had  turned  to  cross  the  road,  when  he 
heard  the  sound  of  quick  hoof-beats.  Surely 
Dorothy  had  not  caught  up  the  horses  so  soon? 
Bartley  turned  toward  the  bend  of  the  road. 
Presently  a  rider,  his  worn  chaps  flapping,  his 
shapeless  hat  pulled  low,  and  his  quirt  swinging 
at  every  jump  of  the  horse,  pounded  up  and  had 
almost  passed  Bartley,  when  he  set  up  his  horse 
and  dismounted.  Bartley  did  not  recognize 
him  until  he  spoke. 

"My  name's  Hull.     I  was  lookin'  for  you." 
"All  right,  Mr.  Hull.     What  do  you  want?" 
Hull's  gaze  traveled  up  and  down  the  East- 
erner.    Hull  was  looking  to  see  if  the  other 
carried  a  gun.     Bartley  expected  argument  and 
inwardly  braced  himself.     Meanwhile  he  won- 
dered if  he  could  find  Hull's  chin  again,  and  as 
easily  as  he  had  found  it  that  night  back  of  the 
livery  barn.     Hull  loomed  big  and  heavy,  and  it 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS  225 

was  evident  from  the  minute  he  dismounted  that 
he  meant  business. 

Without  a  word,  Hull  swung  at  Bartley, 
smashing  in  with  right  and  left,  fighting  like  a 
wild-cat,  forcing  his  weight  into  the  fight,  and 
kicking  wickedly  when  he  got  a  chance.  Fi- 
nally, after  taking  a  straight  blow  in  the  face, 
Hull  clinched — and  the  minute  Bartley  felt  those 
tough-sinewed  arms  around  him  he  knew  that  he 
was  in  for  a  licking. 

Bartley's  only  chance,  and  that  a  pretty  slim 
one,  lay  in  getting  free  from  the  grip  of  those 
arms.  He  used  his  knee  effectively.  Hull 
grunted  and  staggered  back.  Bartley  jumped 
forward  and  bored  in,  knocking  Hull  off  his  feet. 
The  cow-puncher  struck  the  ground,  rolled  over, 
and  was  up  and  coming  like  a  cyclone.  It 
flashed  through  Bartley's  mind  that  the  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  stay  with  it  till  the  finish. 
Hull  was  beating  him  down  slowly,  but  surely. 

Dully  conscious  that  some  one  was  calling, 
behind  him,  Bartley  struck  out,  straight  and 
clean,  but  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  stop  a 
runaway  freight  with  a  whisk-broom.  He  felt 
the  smashing  impact  of  a  blow — then  suddenly 
he  was  on  his  back  in  the  road — and  he  had  no 
desire  to  get  up.  Free  from  the  hammering  of 


226  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

those  heavy  fists,  he  felt  comparatively  com- 
fortable. 

"You  brute!"  It  was  Dorothy's  voice,  tense 
with  anger. 

Bartley  heard  another  voice,  thick  with  heavy 
breathing.  "That's  all  right,  Miss  Gray.  But 
the  dude  had  it  comin'." 

Then  Bartley  heard  the  sound  of  hoof -beats — 
and  somehow  or  other,  Dorothy  was  helping 
him  to  his  feet.  He  tried  to  grin — but  his  lips 
would  not  obey  his  will. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  mumbled. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dorothy,  steady  and  cool. 
"But  you'll  want  to  wash  your  face  at  the  spring. 
I  fetched  your  horse." 

"Lord,  Miss  Gray,  let's  walk.  I'm  more  used 
to  it." 

"It  was  that  man  Hull,  from  the  mountain, 
wasn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know  his  name.  I  did  meet  him 
once,  in  San  Andreas,  after  dark." 

"I'll  just  tie  the  horses,  here.  It's  not  far  to 
the  spring.  Feel  dizzy?" 

"A  little.  But  I  can  walk  without  help,  thank 
you.  Little  Jim  is  down  there,  stalking  rabbits." 

At  the  spring  Bartley  knelt  and  washed  the 
blood  from  his  face  and  felt  tenderly  of  his  half- 


ALONG  THE  FOOTHILLS 

closed  eye,  twisted  his  neck  round  and  felt  a 
sharp  click — and  then  his  head  became  clearer. 
His  light  shirt  was  half -torn  from  his  shoulders, 
and  he  was  scandalously  mussed  up,  to  put  it 
mildly.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  faced  Dorothy. 

"There's  a  formula  for  this  sort  of  thing,  in 
books,"  he  said.  "Just  now  I  can't  recall  it. 
First,  however,  you  say  you're  "all  right,'  if  you 
are  alive.  If  you  are  not,  it  doesn't  matter. 
Then  you  say,  ca  mere  scratch!'  But  I'm  cer- 
tain of  one  thing.  I  never  needed  a  heroine 
more  than  I  did  when  you  arrived." 

Dorothy  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  "You 
aren't  pretending,  are  you?  I  mean — about 
your  condition?" 

"I  should  say  not.  My  eye  is  closed.  My 
right  arm  won't  work,  and  my  head  feels  queer — • 
and  I  am  not  hungry.  But  my  soul  goes  march- 
ing on." 

"Then  we'll  have  to  find  Jimmy.  It's  get- 
ting late." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE" 

IT  was  dark  when  Bartley  arrived  at  his  hotel 
in  San  Andreas.  Not  caring  to  parade  his  black 
eye  and  his  swollen  mouth,  he  took  his  evening 
meal  at  a  little  Mexican  restaurant,  and  then 
went  back  to  his  room,  where  he  spent  the 
evening  adding  a  few  more  pertinent  notes  to  his 
story;  notes  that  were  fresh  in  his  mind.  He 
knew  what  it  felt  like  to  take  a  good  licking.  In 
fact,  the  man  is  unfortunate  who  does  not. 
Bartley  thought  he  could  write  effectively  upon 
the  subject. 

He  had  found  Dorothy's  quiet  sympathy 
rather  soothing.  She  had  made  no  fuss  what- 
ever about  the  matter.  And  she  had  not  in- 
sisted that  he  stop  at  the  ranch  and  get  doctored 
up.  Little  Jim  had  promptly  asked  Bartley, 
"Who  done  it?"  and  Bartley  had  told  him. 
Little  Jim  asked  more  questions  and  was  silenced 
only  by  a  promise  from  Dorothy  to  buy  him 
more  cartridges.  "That  is,  if  you  promise  not 
to  say  anything  about  it  to  Aunt  Jane  or  Uncle 


GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE  229 

Frank,"  she  stipulated.  Little  Jim  gravely 
shook  hands  upon  the  agreement.  Dorothy 
knew  that  he  would  keep  his  word. 

This  agreement  had  been  made  after  Bartley 
had  left  them.  Dorothy  had  sworn  Little  Jim 
to  silence,  not  so  much  on  Bartley's  account  as 
on  her  own.  Should  the  news  of  the  fight  be- 
come public,  there  would  be  much  bucolic  com- 
ment, wherein  her  name  would  be  mentioned 
and  the  whole  affair  interpreted  to  suit  the  crude 
imaginings  of  the  community.  Bartley  also 
realized  this  and,  because  of  it,  stuck  close  to  his 
room  for  two  days,  meanwhile  making  copious 
notes  for  the  new  story. 

But  the  making  of  notes  for  the  story  was  a 
rather  tame  occupation  compared  with  the  pos- 
sibilities of  actual  adventure  on  the  road.  He 
had  a  good  saddle-horse,  plenty  of  optimism, 
and  enough  money  to  pay  his  way  wherever  he 
chose  to  go.  Incidentally  he  had  a  notebook 
and  pencil.  What  more  did  a  man  need  to  make 
life  worth  while? 

And  then,  somewhere  along  the  southern  high- 
way Cheyenne  was  jogging  with  Filaree  and 
Joshua: 

Seems  like  I  don't  git  anywhere: 
Git  along,  cayuse,  git  along. 


230  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley  rose  and  stepped  to  the  window. 
San  Andreas  drowsed  in  the  noon  sun.  Far  to 
the  north  he  could  see  a  dot  of  fresh  green — the 
cotton  woods  of  the  Lawrence  rancho.  Again 
he  found  himself  in  the  grip  of  indecision.  After 
all,  a  fellow  didn't  have  to  journey  up  and  down 
the  land  to  find  material  for  a  story.  There  was 
plenty  of  material  right  where  he  was.  All  he 
had  to  do  was  to  stop,  look,  and  listen.  "Hang 
the  story!"  he  exclaimed  peevishly.  "I'll  just 
go  out  and  live — and  then  write  the  story." 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  pack  his  saddle- 
bags, nor  to  get  together  the  few  articles  of 
clothing  he  had  had  washed  by  a  Mexican 
woman  in  town.  He  wrote  a  brief  note  to 
Dorothy,  stating  that  he  was  on  his  way.  He 
paid  his  hotel  bill,  stepped  round  to  the  livery 
and  paid  for  Dobe's  entertainment,  saddled  up, 
and,  literally  shaking  the  dust  of  San  Andreas 
from  his  feet,  rode  down  the  long  trail  south, 
headed  for  Joe  Scott's  placer,  as  his  first  stop. 

He  would  spend  the  night  there  and  then  head 
south  again.  The  only  living  thing  that  seemed 
interested  in  Bartley's  exodus  was  a  stray  dog 
that  seemed  determined  to  follow  him.  Turning 
from  the  road,  Bartley  took  the  short  cut  to 
Scott's  placer.  Glancing  back  he  saw  that  the 


GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE  231 

dog  was  still  following.  Hartley  told  him  to  go 
home.  The  dog,  a  very  ordinary  yellow  dog, 
didn't  happen  to  have  a  home — and  he  was 
hungry.  So  he  ignored  Bartley's  command. 

Whether  or  not  he  imagined  that  Bartley  was 
different  from  the  run  of  townsfolk  is  a  question. 
Possibly  he  imagined  Bartley  might  give  him 
something  to  eat.  In  any  event,  the  dog  stuck 
to  the  trail  clear  up  to  Scott's  placer. 

Scott  was  not  at  the  cabin.  Bartley  hallooed, 
glanced  round,  and  dismounted.  On  the  cabin 
door  was  a  note:  "Gone  to  Phoenix.  J.  Scott." 

Bartley  turned  from  the  cabin  to  find  the  dog 
gazing  up  at  him  mournfully;  his  expression 
seemed  to  convey  the  idea  that  they  were  both 
in  hard  luck.  Nobody  home  and  nothing  to 
eat. 

"What,  you  here!"  exclaimed  Bartley. 

The  yellow  dog  wagged  his  tail.  He  was 
young  and  as  yet  had  some  faith  in  mankind. 

Bartley  tied  his  horse  and  stro.de  up  the  trail 
to  the  workings.  Everything  had  been  put  in 
order.  The  dog  helped  investigate,  sniffing  at 
the  wheelbarrow,  the  buckets,  the  empty  sacks 
weighted  down  with  rock  to  keep  them  from 
blowing  away,  the  row  of  tools,  picks  and 
shovels  and  bars.  Evidently  the  owner  of  the 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

place  was  not  concealed  beneath  any  of  these 
things. 

Meanwhile  the  afternoon  shadows  warned 
Bartley  that  a  camp  with  water  and  feed  was 
the  next  thing  in  order.  He  strode  back  to  the 
cabin.  There  was  no  problem  to  solve,  although 
he  thought  there  was.  The  yellow  dog,  an  old 
campaigner  in  the  open,  though  young  in  years, 
solved  his  problem  by  a  suggestion.  He  was 
tired.  There  seemed  to  be  no  food  in  sight.  He 
philosophically  trotted  to  the  open  shed  opposite 
the  cabin  and  made  a  bed  for  himself  in  a  pile 
of  gunny-sacks.  Bartley  grinned.  Why  not? 

Experience  had  taught  Bartley  to  carry  some- 
thing else,  besides  a  notebook  and  pencil,  in  his 
saddle-bags.  Hence  the  crackers  and  can  of 
corned  beef  came  in  handy.  The  mountain 
water  was  cold  and  refreshing.  There  was  hay 
in  the  burro  stable.  Moreover,  Bartley  now 
had  a  happy  companion  who  licked  his  chops, 
wagged  his  tail,  and  grinned  as  he  finished  a  bit  of 
corned  beef.  Bartley  tossed  him  a  cracker. 
The  dog  caught  it  and  it  disappeared.  This 
was  something  like  it!  Here  was  a  man  who 
rode  a  big  horse,  didn't  kick  stray  dogs,  and 
even  shared  a  meal  with  a  fellow!  Such  a  man 
was  worth  following  forever. 


GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE  233 

"It  would  seem  that  you  have  adopted  me," 
declared  Bartley.  The  dog  had  shown  no  in- 
clination to  leave  since  being  fed.  There  might 
possibly  be  another  meal  coming,  later. 

"But  what  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?" 
queried  Bartley,  as  the  dog  curled  up  on  the 
pile  of  gunny-sacks.  "You  don't  look  as  though 
you  habitually  stopped  at  hotels,  and  I'll  have 
to,  until  I  catch  up  with  Cheyenne.  What's 
the  answer?" 

The  yellow  dog,  all  snuggled  down  in  the 
sacks,  peered  at  Bartley  with  unblinking  eyes. 
Bartley  laughed.  Then  he  made  his  own  bed 
with  gunny-sacks,  and  after  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette, turned  in  and  slept  well. 

He  did  not  expect  to  find  the  dog  there  in  the 
morning.  But  the  dog  was  there,  most  evi- 
dently waiting  for  breakfast,  grinning  his  de- 
light at  not  being  cursed  or  kicked  at,  and 
frisking  round  the  cabin  yard  in  a  mad  race 
after  nothing  in  particular,  and  indicating  in 
every  way  possible  that  he  was  the  happiest  dog 
that  ever  wagged  a  tail. 

Crackers  and  corned  beef  again,  and  spring 
water  for  breakfast.  And  while  Dobe  munched 
his  hay,  Bartley  smoked  and  roughly  planned 
his  itinerary.  He  would  travel  south  as  far  as 


234  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Phoenix  and  then  swing  back  again,  over  the  old 
Apache  Trail — if  he  did  not  overtake  Cheyenne. 

If  he  did  overtake  him,  the  plan  might  be 
changed.  It  did  not  matter.  He  had  set  out 
to  find  his  erstwhile  traveling  companion.  If  he 
found  him,  they  could  just  as  well  travel  to- 
gether. If  he  did  not,  Bartley  determined  to 
see  much  of  the  country.  In  so  far  as  influencing 
Cheyenne  in  any  way — -that  would  have  to  be 
determined  by  chance.  Bartley  felt  that  his 
influence  with  the  sprightly  Cheyenne  weighed 
very  little  against  Cheyenne's  hatred  for  Pan- 
handle Sears. 

Once  more  upon  the  road,  with  the  early 
morning  shadows  slanting  across  the  valley, 
Bartley  felt  that  it  was  his  own  fault  if  he  did 
not  enjoy  himself.  Swinging  into  an  easy  trot 
he  turned  to  see  if  the  yellow  dog  were  following 
him.  At  first  Bartley  thought  the  dog  had 
shown  wisdom  and  had  departed  for  San  An- 
dreas, but,  happening  to  glance  down  on  the 
other  side  of  his  horse,  he  saw  the  dog  trotting 
along,  close  to  Dobe's  heels. 

Bartley  felt  a  pity  for  the  dog's  dumb,  in- 
sistent attachment.  Reining  in,  Bartley  told 
the  dog  he  had  better  go  home.  For  answer  the 
dog  lay  down  in  the  horse's  shadow,  his  head  on 


GIT  ALONG  CAYUSE  235 

his  paws,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  Bartley's  face. 
He  did  not  seem  to  know  what  the  words  meant. 
But  he  did  know — only  pretended  he  did  not. 
His  roof  tree  was  the  Arizona  sky,  and  his  home 
the  place  where  his  adopted  master  camped  at 
night. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Bartley,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself. 

That  noon  they  stopped  at  a  ranch  where 
Bartley  had  dinner  and  fed  his  horse.  Chey- 
enne had  passed  that  way  several  days  ago,  the 
ranch  folk  told  him.  It  was  about  twenty  miles 
to  the  next  town.  Bartley  was  invited  to  stop 
by  and  spend  the  night,  but  he  declined  the  in- 
vitation, even  as  they  had  declined  to  accept 
money  for  their  hospitality.  Meanwhile  the 
dog  had  disappeared.  He  had  not  followed 
Bartley  into  the  ranch.  And  it  was  some  twenty 
minutes  or  so  after  Bartley  was  on  the  road 
again  that  he  discovered  the  dog,  coming  round 
a  bend  on  the  run.  There  was  no  getting  rid  of  him. 

The  dog,  who  had  often  been  chased  from 
ranches  by  other  dogs,  had  at  first  waited  pa- 
tiently for  Bartley  to  appear.  Then,  as  Bart- 
ley did  not  appear,  the  dog  made  a  short  scout 
through  the  near-by  brush.  Finally  he  stirred 
up  a  rabbit.  It  was  a  long,  hard  chase,  but  the 


236  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

dog  got  his  dinner.  Then,  circling,  he  took  up 
Hartley's  trail  from  the  ranch,  overtaking  him 
with  grim  determination  not  to  lose  sight  of 
him  again. 

Arriving  at  the  town  of  Stacey  early  that 
afternoon,  Bartley  arranged  with  the  local  livery- 
man for  the  dog's  keep  that  night.  From  that 
night  on,  the  dog  never  let  Dobe  out  of  his  sight. 
It  was  evidently  intended  that  he  should  sleep 
in  stalls  and  guard  Dobe  against  the  approach 
of  any  one  save  his  master. 

Bartley  learned  that  Cheyenne  had  passed 
through  Stacey  headed  south.  He  had  stopped 
at  the  local  store  to  purchase  provisions.  Esti- 
mating roughly,  Bartley  was  making  better 
time  than  had  Cheyenne,  yet  it  would  be  several 
days  before  he  could  possibly  overtake  him. 

Next  day  Bartley  had  ridden  better  than  forty 
miles,  and  that  night  he  stayed  at  a  ranch,  where 
he  was  made  welcome.  In  fact,  any  one  who 
rode  a  good  horse  and  appeared  to  be  even  half- 
way civil  never  suffered  for  want  of  a  meal  or  a 
bed  in  those  days.  Gasoline  has  somewhat 
diluted  such  hospitality,  yet  there  are  sections 
of  Arizona  still  unspoiled,  where  the  stranger  is 
made  to  feel  that  the  word  "home"  has  retained 
its  ancient  and  honorable  significance. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BOX-S   BUSINESS 

A  FEW  days  later,  Hartley  stopped  at  a  small 
town  to  have  his  horse  shod.  The  blacksmith 
seemed  unusually  interested  in  the  horse  and 
complimented  Bartley  upon  owning  such  a  good 
mount. 

"Comes  from  up  San  Andreas  way,"  said  the 
smith,  noticing  the  brand  on  Dobe's  flank. 

"Yes.  I  picked  him  up  at  Antelope.  I  under- 
stand he  was  raised  on  Senator  Brown's  ranch." 

"That's  Steve  Brown's  brand,  all  right. 
Heard  the  news  from  up  that  way?" 

"Nothing  special." 

"Seems  somebody  run  off  a  bunch  of  Senator 
Steve's  horses,  last  week.  Thought  mebby 
you'd  heard." 

"No." 

"Well,  thought  I'd  just  tell  you.  I  seen  one 
posse  ride  through  yesterday.  They'll  be  lookin' 
for  strangers  along  the  road." 

"Thanks.  I  bought  this  horse — and  I  happen 
to  know  Senator  Brown." 


238  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"No  offense,  stranger.  If  I'd  'a'  suspicioned 
you'd  stole  that  horse,  you  wouldn't  take  him 
out  of  here.  Like  I  said  to  Cheyenne,  last  week; 
he  could  fetch  a  whole  carload  of  stock  in  here 
and  take  'em  out  again  without  trouble.  He 
was  tellin'  me  how  he  lost  his  horses,  and  we 
got  to  talkin'  about  some  folks  bein'  blind  when 
they're  facin'  a  brand  on  a  critter.  Mebby  you 
heard  tell  of  Cheyenne  Hastings?" 

"I  have  traveled  with  him.  You  say  he 
stopped  here  a  few  days  ago?" 

"Well,  not  just  stopped;  he  kind  of  looked 
in  to  see  how  I  was  gettin'  along.  He  acted 
queerlike,  for  him.  I've  knowed  Cheyenne  for 
years.  Said  he  was  feelin'  all  right.  He  ast 
me  if  I'd  seen  Panhandle  Sears  down  this  way, 
recent.  Seemed  kind  of  disappointed  when  I 
told  him  no.  Cheyenne  used  to  be  a  right-smart 
man,  before  he  had  trouble  with  that  woman 
of  his." 

"Yes?  He  told  me  about  it,"  said  Bartley, 
not  caring  to  hear  any  more  of  the  details  of 
Cheyenne's  trouble. 

"'Most  everybody  knows  it,"  stated  the  smith. 
"And  if  I  was  Sears  I'd  sure  leave  this  country." 

"So  should  I.  I've  seen  Cheyenne  handle  a 
gun." 


BOX-S  BUSINESS  239 

"You  got  the  right  idea!"  exclaimed  the  black- 
smith, evidently  pleased.  "All  Cheyenne's 
friends  have  been  waitin'  for  years  for  him  to 
clean  that  slate  and  start  fresh  again.  He  used 
to  be  a  right -smart  hand,  before  he  had 
trouble." 

The  blacksmith  accompanied  his  conversation 
with  considerable  elbow  motion  and  the  rattle 
and  clang  of  shaping  horseshoes.  Presently 
Dobe  was  new  shod  and  ready  for  the  road. 
Hartley  paid  the  smith,  thanked  him  for  a  good 
job,  and  rode  south.  Evidently  Cheyenne's 
open  quarrel  with  Sears  was  the  talk  of  the  coun- 
tryside. It  was  expected  of  Cheyenne  that  he 
would  "clean  the  slate  and  start  fresh"  some 
day.  And  cleaning  the  slate  meant  killing 
Sears.  To  Bartley  it  seemed  strange  that  any 
one  should  be  pleased  with  the  idea  of  one  man 
killing  another  deliberately. 

In  speaking  of  the  recent  horse-stealing,  the 
blacksmith  had  mentioned  no  names.  But 
Bartley  at  once  drew  the  conclusion  that  it  had 
been  Sneed's  men  who  had  run  off  the  Senator's 
horses.  Sneed  was  known  to  be  a  horse-thief. 
He  had  never  been  convicted,  although  he  had 
been  arrested  and  tried  several  times.  It  was 
also  known  that  Senator  Steve  had  openly 


240  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

vowed  that  he  would  rid  the  country  of  Sneed, 
sooner  or  later. 

Several  times,  during  his  journey  south, 
Hartley  was  questioned,  but  never  interfered 
with.  Thus  far  he  heard  of  Cheyenne  occa- 
sionally, but,  nearing  Phoenix,  he  lost  track 
of  his  erstwhile  companion.  However,  he  took  it 
for  granted  that  Phoenix  had  been  Cheyenne's 
destination.  And  Bartley  wanted  to  see  the 
town  for  himself,  in  any  event. 

Cheyenne,  arriving  in  Phoenix,  stabled  his 
horses  at  the  Top -Notch  livery,  and  took  a  room 
for  himself  directly  opposite  the  Hole-in-the- 
Wall  gambling-house.  He  refused  to  drink  with 
the  occasional  acquaintance  he  met,  not  because 
he  did  not  like  liquor,  but  because  Colonel 
Stevenson,  the  city  marshal,  had  told  him 
that  Panhandle  Sears  and  his  friends  were  in 
town. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me  to  go  git  him?", 
queried  Cheyenne,  looking  the  marshal  in  the 
eye. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  necessary,"  said  the 
marshal. 

"What?    To  git  him?" 

The   marshal    smiled.      Then    casually:      "I 


BOX-S  BUSINESS  241 

hear  that  Panhandle  and  his  friends  are  drinking 
heavy  and  spending  considerable  money.  They 
must  have  made  a  strike,  somewhere." 

"I  see  by  the  paper  somebody  run  off  a  bunch 
of  the  Box-S  bosses,"  remarked  Cheyenne,  also 
casually. 

Then,  without  further  comment,  he  left  the 
marshal  wondering  if  Panhandle's  presence  in 
town  had  any  connection  with  the  recent  run- 
ning-off  of  the  Box-S  stock.  The  sheriff  of 
Antelope  had  wired  Colonel  Stevenson  to  be  on 
the  lookout  for  Bill  Sneed  and  his  gang,  but  had 
not  mentioned  Panhandle's  name  in  the  tele- 
gram. 

The  following  day,  Senator  Brown  and  his 
foreman,  Lon  Pelly,  arrived  in  Phoenix  and 
had  a  long  talk  with  the  marshal.  That  after- 
noon Lon  Pelly  took  the  train  south.  Early  in 
the  evening  Senator  Brown  received  a  telegram 
from  Pelly  stating  that  Sneed  and  four  men  had 
left  Tucson,  headed  north  and  riding  horses. 

The  stolen  horses  had  been  trailed  south  as 
far  as  Phoenix.  It  was  evident  that  they  had 
been  driven  to  Tucson  and  disposed  of  some- 
where in  that  vicinity.  Yet  there  was  no  con- 
clusive proof  that  Sneed  had  stolen  the  horses. 
As  usual,  he  had  managed  to  keep  a  few  days 


242  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

ahead  of  his  pursuers.  Sneed  was  known  to 
have  left  his  camp  in  the  hills  above  San  Andreas. 
The  first  posse  had  found  the  camp  abandoned. 
Sneed  had  not  been  identified  until  Pelly  got 
track  of  him  in  Tucson. 

During  his  talk  with  Senator  Brown  the 
marshal  mentioned  the  fact  that  Panhandle 
Sears  was  in  Phoenix. 

"Did  Panhandle  come  in  from  the  south?" 
queried  the  Senator. 

"Nobody  seems  to  know." 

"Well,  if  he  did,  we  have  got  the  link  that's 
missing  in  this  chain,  Colonel.  Pelly  is  holdin' 
one  end  of  the  chain  down  in  Tucson,  and  the 
other  end  is  layin'  right  here  in  Phoenix.  If 
we  can  connect  her  up — " 

"But  we  haven't  located  the  horses,  Senator." 

"Colonel,  I'll  find  those  horses  if  I  can.  But 
I'm  after  Sneed,  this  journey.  He  has  been 
running  things  about  ten  years  too  long  to  suit 
me.  I've  got  a  check-book  with  me.  You  have 
the  men.  I'm  out  to  do  a  little  housecleanin'  of 
my  own.  If  we  can  get  Panhandle  to  talk,  we 
can  find  out  something." 

"He's  been  on  a  drunk  for  a  week.  I  could 
run  him  in  for  disturbing  the  peace  and — •" 

"And   he'd    suspect   what   we're    after    and 


BOX-S  BUSINESS  243 

freeze  up,  tight.  No,  let  him  run  loose,  but 
keep  your  eye  on  him.  He'll  give  the  deal 
away,  sooner  or  later." 

"I  hope  it's  sooner,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Chey- 
enne is  holed  up  down  the  street,  waiting  for  a 
chance  to  get  Sears.  Cheyenne  didn't  say  so, 
but  it  was  in  his  eye.  He's  changed  considerable 
since  I  saw  him  last." 

"Was  there  any  one  with  him:  a  tall,  dark- 
haired,  kind  of  clean-cut  boy,  for  instance?" 

"No,  not  when  I  saw  him.  He  rode  in  with 
his  usual  outfit." 

"Wonder  where  he  lost  young  Hartley?  Well, 
I'm  glad  the  boy  isn't  here.  He  might  get 
hurt." 

"Wild?" 

"No.  Quiet.  Writes  stories.  He's  out  here 
to  look  at  the  West.  Stayed  at  the  ranch  a 
spell.  Mrs.  Brown  likes  him." 

Colonel  Stevenson  nodded  and  offered  the 
Senator  a  cigar.  "Let's  step  over  to  the  hotel, 
Steve.  It's  a  long  time  since—" 

That  evening  Bartley  arrived  in  Phoenix,  put 
up  his  horse,  and,  upon  inquiry,  learned  that 
the  Grand  Central  was  the  best  hotel  in  town. 
He  was  registering  when  he  noticed  Senator 


244  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Brown's  name.  He  made  inquiry  of  the  clerk. 
Yes,  the  Senator  had  arrived  that  morning. 
And  would  Mr.  Bartley  prefer  a  front  room? 
The  front  rooms  on  the  north  side  were  cooler. 
No,  the  clerk  knew  nothing  about  a  Mr.  Chey- 
enne. There  was  no  one  by  that  name  registered 
at  the  hotel.  It  was  past  the  regular  dinner 
hour,  but  the  dining-room  was  not  yet  closed. 
There  was  a  men's  furnishings  store  just  across 
the  street.  They  carried  a  complete  stock.  And 
did  Mr.  Bartley  wish  to  be  called  at  any  special 
hour  in  the  morning?  Breakfast  was  served 
from  six-thirty  to  nine-thirty. 

Bartley  had  dinner,  and  later  strolled  around 
to  the  Top-Notch  livery  to  see  that  Dobe  was 
being  well  cared  for.  While  talking  with  the 
stableman,  Bartley  noticed  a  gray  pony  and  in 
the  next  stall  a  buckskin — Cheyenne's  horses. 

"Those  are  Cheyenne's  horses,  aren't  they?" 
he  queried. 

"I  dunno.  Mebby  that's  his  name.  He  left 
'em  here  a  few  days  ago.  I  only  seen  him  once, 
since  then." 

"I'll  be  around  in  the  morning.  If  a  man 
called  Cheyenne  should  happen  to  come  in, 
just  tell  him  that  Bartley  is  stopping  at  the 
Grand  Central." 


BOX-S  BUSINESS  245 

'Til  tell  him,  all  right,"  said  the  stableman. 

And  as  soon  as  Hartley  was  out  of  sight,  that 
worthy  called  up  the  city  marshal  and  told  him 
that  a  stranger  had  ridden  in  and  stabled  a  horse 
bearing  the  Box-S  brand.  A  big  reward  had 
been  offered  for  the  stolen  horses. 

At  the  hotel  Hartley  learned  that  Senator 
Brown  liad  gone  out  for  the  evening.  Tired 
from  his  long  ride,  Bartley  went  to  his  room. 
Senator  Steve  and  Cheyenne  were  in  town. 
Bartley  recalled  the  blacksmith's  talk  about 
the  stolen  horses.  No  doubt  that  accounted  for 
Senator  Steve's  presence  in  Phoenix.  As  for 
Cheyenne — Bartley  decided  to  hunt  him  up  in 
the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 

PANHANDLE  SEARS,  in  a  back  room  in  the  Hole- 
in-the-Wall,  was  ugly  drunk.  The  Hole-in-the- 
Wall  had  the  reputation  of  running  a  straight 
game.  Whether  or  not  the  game  was  straight, 
Panhandle  had  managed  to  drop  his  share  of 
the  money  from  the  sale  of  the  Box-S  horses. 
He  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  actual  steal- 
ing of  them,  but  he  had,  with  the  assistance  of 
his  Mexican  companion  Posmo,  engineered  the 
sale  to  a  rancher  living  out  of  Tucson.  It  was 
understood  that  the  horses  would  find  their  way 
across  the  border. 

Now  Panhandle  was  broke  again.  He  stated 
that  unpleasant  fact  to  his  companions,  Posmo 
and  Shorty, — the  latter  a  town  loafer  he  had 
picked  up  in  Antelope.  Shorty  had  nothing  to 
say.  Panhandle's  drunken  aggressiveness  cowed 
him.  But  Posmo,  who  had  really  found  the 
market  for  the  stolen  stock,  felt  that  he  had 
been  cheated.  Panhandle  had  promised  him 
a  third  of  his  share  of  the  money.  Panhandle 


THE  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL  247 

had  kept  on  promising  from  day  to  day,  liquidat- 
ing his  promises  with  whiskey.  And  now  there 
was  no  money. 

Posmo  knew  Panhandle  well  enough  not  to 
press  the  matter,  just  then.  But  Panhandle, 
because  neither  of  his  companions  had  said  any- 
thing when  told  that  he  was  broke,  turned  on 
Posmo. 

"What  you  got  to  say  about  it,  anyway?" 
he  asked  with  that  curious  stubbornness  born 
in  liquor. 

"I  say  that  you  owe  me  a  hundred  dollar," 
declared  Posmo. 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  collect!" 

"Yes,  go  ahead  and  collect,"  said  Shorty, 
suddenly  siding  with  Panhandle.  "We  bio  wed 
her  in.  We're  broke,  but  we  ain't  cryin'  about 
it." 

"That  is  all  right,"  said  Posmo  quietly. 
"If  the  money  is  gone,  she  is  gone;  yes?" 

"That's  the  way  to  say  it!"  asserted  Pan- 
handle, changing  front  and  slapping  Posmo  on 
the  shoulder.  "We're  broke,  and  who  the  hell 
cares?" 

"Let's  have  a  drink,"  suggested  Shorty. 
"I  got  a  couple  of  beans  left." 

They  slouched  out  from  the  back  room  and 


248  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

stood  at  the  bar.  Panhandle  immediately  be- 
came engaged  in  noisy  argument  with  one  of 
the  frequenters  of  the  place.  Senator  Brown's 
name  was  mentioned  by  the  other,  but  men- 
tioned casually,  with  no  reference  whatever  to 
stolen  horses. 

Panhandle  laughed.  "So  old  Steve  is  down 
here  lookin'  for  his  bosses,  eh?" 

"What  horses?" 

The  question,  spoken  by  no  one  knew  whom, 
chilled  the  group  to  silence. 

Panhandle  saw  that  he  had  made  a  blunder. 
"Who  wants  to  know?"  he  queried,  gazing 
round  the  barroom. 

"Why,  it's  in  all  the  papers,"  declared  the 
bartender  conciliatingly.  "The  Box-S  horses 
was  run  off  a  couple  of  weeks  ago." 

Panhandle  turned  his  back  on  the  group  and 
called  for  a  drink. 

Shorty  was  tugging  gently  at  his  sleeve. 
"Posmo's  beat  it,  Pan." 

"To  hell  with  him!  Beat  it  yourself  if  you 
feel  like  it." 

"I'll  stick  Pan,"  declared  Shorty,  yet  his 
furtive  eyes  belied  his  assertion. 

For   three   days   Bartley  had   tried   to   find 


THE  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL  249 

where  Cheyenne  was  staying,  but  without  suc- 
cess, chiefly  because  Cheyenne  kept  close  to  his 
room  during  the  daytime,  watching  the  entrance 
to  the  Hole-in-the-Wall,  waiting  for  Panhandle 
to  step  out  into  the  daylight,  when  there  would 
be  folk  on  the  street  who  could  witness  that 
Panhandle  had  drawn  his  gun  first.  Cheyenne 
determined  to  give  his  enemy  that  chance,  and 
then  kill  him.  But  thus  far  Panhandle  had  not 
appeared  on  the  street  in  the  daytime,  so  far  as 
Cheyenne  knew. 

Incidentally,  Senator  Steve  had  warned  Bart- 
ley  to  keep  away  from  the  Hole-in-the-Wall 
district  after  dark,  intimating  that  there  was 
more  in  the  wind  than  Cheyenne's  feud  with 
Panhandle  Sears.  So  Bartley  contented  himself 
with  acting  as  a  sort  of  private  secretary  for  the 
Senator,  a  duty  that  was  a  pleasure.  The 
hardest  thing  Bartley  did  was  to  refuse  bottled 
entertainment,  at  least  once  out  of  every  three 
times  it  was  offered. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  Pelly 
had  wired  the  Senator  that  Sneed  and  his  men 
had  ridden  north  from  Tucson,  Posmo,  hanging 
about  the  eastern  outskirts  of  Phoenix,  saw  a 
small  band  of  horsemen  against  the  southern 
sky-line.  Knowing  the  trail  they  would  take, 


250  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

north,  Posmo  had  timed  their  arrival  al- 
most to  the  hour.  They  would  pass  to  the  east 
of  Phoenix,  and  take  the  old  Apache  Trail, 
North.  Posmo  had  his  horse  saddled  and  hidden 
in  a  draw.  He  mounted  and  rode  directly 
toward  the  oncoming  horsemen. 

He  sang  as  he  rode.  It  was  safer  to  do  that, 
when  it  was  growing  dark.  The  riders  would 
know  he  was  a  Mexican,  and  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  conceal  his  identity  on  the  road.  He 
did  not  care  to  be  mistaken  for  an  enemy, 
especially  so  near  Phoenix. 

Sneed,  a  giant  in  the  dusk,  reined  in  as  Posmo 
hailed  the  group.  Sneed  asked  his  name. 
Posmo  replied,  and  was  told  to  ride  up.  Sneed, 
separating  himself  from  his  men,  rode  a  little 
ahead  and  met  Posmo. 

"Panhandle  is  give  the  deal  away,"  stated 
Posmo. 

"How?" 

"He  drunk  and  spend  all  the  money.  He 
do  not  give  me  anything  for  that  I  make  the 
deal — over  there,"  and  Posmo  gestured  toward 
the  south. 

"Double-crossed  you,  eh?  And  now  you're 
sore  and  want  his  scalp." 

"He  talk  too  much  of  the  Box-S  horses  in 


THE  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL 

that  cantina,"  stated  Posmo  deliberately.  "He 
say  that  you  owe  him  money."  This  was  an 
afterthought,  and  an  invention. 

"Who  did  he  say  that  to?"  queried  Sneed. 

"He  tell  everybody  in  that  place  that  you 
turn  the  good  trick  and  then  throw  him 
hard." 

"Either  you're  lyin',  or  Panhandle's  crazy." 
Sneed  turned  and  called  to  his  men,  a  few 
paces  off.  They  rode  up  on  tired  horses.  "What 
do  you  say,  boys?  Panhandle  is  talkin',  over 
there  in  Phoenix.  Posmo,  here,  says  Panhandle 
is  talkin'  about  us.  Now  nobody's  got  a  thing 
on  us.  We  been  south  lookin'  at  some  stock 
we're  thinkin'  of  buyin'.  Want  to  ride  over  with 
me  and  have  a  little  talk  with  Panhandle?" 

"Ain't  that  kind  of  risky,  Cap?" 

"Every  time!  But  it  ain't  necessary  to  ride 
right  into  the  marshal's  office.  We  put  our 
little  deal  through  clean.  The  horses  we're 
ridin'  belong  to  us.  And  who's  goin'  to  stop 
us  from  ridin'  in,  or  out,  of  town?  I  aim  to 
talk  to  Panhandle  into  ridin'  north  with  us.  It's 
safer  to  have  him  along.  If  you  all  don't  want 
to  ride  with  me,  I'll  go  in  alone." 

"We're  with  you,  Cap,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"Mebby  it's  safer  to  ride  through  the  towns 


£52  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

from  now  on  than  to  keep  dodgin'  'em,"  sug- 
gested Lawson. 

"Come  on,  then,"  and  Sneed  indicated  Posmo. 

"And  don't  make  any  mistakes,"  threatened 
Lawson,  riding  close  to  the  Mexican.  "If  you 
do — -you  won't  last." 

Posmo  had  not  counted  on  this  turn  of  affairs. 
He  had  supposed  that  his  news  would  send 
Sneed  and  his  men  in  to  have  it  out  with  Pan- 
handle, or  that  one  of  them  would  ride  in  and 
persuade  Panhandle  to  join  them.  But  he  now 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  ride  with  Sneed, 
or  he  would  be  suspected  of  double-dealing. 

At  the  fork  of  the  road  leading  into  Phoenix, 
Sneed  reined  in.  "We're  ridin'  tired  horses, 
boys.  And  we  ain't  lookin'  for  trouble.  All  we 
want  is  Panhandle.  We'll  get  him." 

Sitting  his  big  horse  like  a  statue,  his  club 
foot  concealed  by  the  long  tapadero,  his  physical 
being  dominating  his  followers,  Sneed  headed 
the  group  that  rode  slowly  down  the  long  open 
stretch  bordering  on  the  east  of  the  town.  They 
entered  town  quietly  and  stopped  a  few  doors 
below  the  lighted  front  of  the  Hole -in- the  - 
Wall. 

"Just  step  in  and  tell  Panhandle  I  want  to  see 
lim,"  and  Sneed  indicated  one  of  his  riders. 


THE  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL  253 

The  man  went  in  and  came  out  again  with 
the  information  that  Panhandle  had  left  the 
saloon  about  an  hour  ago;  that  he  had  told 
the  bartender  he  was  going  out  to  get  some 
money  and  come  back  and  play  the  wheel. 

"Get  on  your  horse,"  said  Sneed,  who  had 
been  gazing  up  the  street  while  listening  to  the 
other.  "Here  comes  Panhandle  now.  I'll  do 
the  talking." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CHEYENNE   PLAYS   BIG 

WATCHING  from  his  darkened  window,  Cheyenne 
had  seen  Panhandle  leave  the  Hole-in -the-Wall, 
and  stride  up  the  street  alone.  It  was  the  first 
time  Cheyenne  had  seen  Sears  since  he  had  taken 
the  single  room  opposite  the  gambling-house. 
Cheyenne  stepped  back,  drew  down  the  curtain, 
and  turned  on  the  light.  The  bare  board  floor 
was  littered  with  cigarette  stubs.  A  pair  of 
saddle-bags  hung  on  the  iron  bedstead.  Other 
furniture  was  a  chair,  a  scratched  and  battered 
washstand,  a  cracked  mirror.  Standing  by  the 
washstand  Cheyenne  took  his  gun  from  its 
holster,  half-cocked  it,  and  punched  out  the 
loaded  cartridges.  He  pulled  the  pin,  pushed  the 
cylinder  out  with  his  thumb,  and  examined  it 
against  the  light.  Carefully  he  cleaned  and 
replaced  the  cylinder,  reloaded  it,  held  the  ham- 
mer back,  and  spun  the  cylinder  with  his  hand. 
Finally  he  thrust  the  gun  in  the  holster  and, 
striding  to  the  bed,  sat  down,  his  chin  in  his 
hands. 


CHEYENNE  PLAYS  BIG  f5i 

Somewhere  out  there  on  the  street,  or  in  the 
Hole-in-the-Wall,  he  would  meet  his  enemy — in 
a  few  minutes,  perhaps.  There  would  be  no 
wordy  argument.  They  understood  each  other, 
and  had  understood  each  other,  since  that  morn- 
ing, long  ago  when  they  had  passed  each  other 
on  the  road — -Panhandle  riding  in  to  Laramie 
and  Cheyenne  and  Little  Jim  riding  from  the 
abandoned  home.  Cheyenne  thought  of  Little 
Jim,  of  his  wife,  and,  by  some  queer  trick  of 
mind,  of  Bartley.  He  knew  that  the  Easterner 
was  in  town.  The  stableman  at  the  Top-Notch 
had  told  him.  Well,  he  had  seen  Panhandle. 
Now  he  would  go  out  and  meet  him,  or  overtake 
him. 

Some  one  turned  from  the  street  into  the  hall 
below  and  rapidly  climbed  the  stairs.  Cheyenne 
heard  a  knock  at  the  door  opposite  his.  That 
room  was  unoccupied.  Then  came  a  brisk  knock 
at  his  own  door. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Is  that  you,  Cheyenne?" 

"Who  wants  to  know?" 

"Bartley.  I  just  found  out  from  Colonel 
Stevenson  where  you  were  camping." 

Cheyenne  stepped  to  the  door  and  unlocked 
it. 


25S  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

Bartley  entered,  glanced  round  the  room,  and 
then  shook  hands  with  Cheyenne.  "Been  a 
week  trying  to  find  you.  How  are  you  and  how 
are  the  horses?  Man,  but  it  was  a  long,  lone- 
some ride  from  San  Andreas !  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  dog  that  adopted  me — -by  the  way, 
Colonel  Stevenson  was  telling  Senator  Brown 
that  Panhandle  is  in  town.  I  suppose  you  know 
it." 

"I  seen  him,  this  evenin'." 

"So  did  I.  Just  passed  him  as  I  came  down 
here.  The  Colonel  said  you  were  camping 
somewhere  opposite  the  Hole-in-the-Wall.  How 
is  everything?" 

"Quiet." 

"Were  you  going  anywhere?" 

"No  place  in  particular." 

Bartley  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
lighted  a  cigarette.  Cheyenne  stood  as  though 
waiting  for  him  to  leave.  There  was  something 
queer  about  Cheyenne.  His  eyes  were  somber, 
his  manner  stiff  and  unnatural.  His  greeting 
had  been  cool. 

"About  that  man  Panhandle- — "  Bartley  be- 
gan, but  Cheyenne  interrupted  with  a  gesture. 

"You  say  you  saw  him,  on  your  way  down 
here?" 


CHEYENNE  PLAYS  BIG  257 

"Yes.  He  didn't  seem  to  recognize  me.  He 
was  walking  fast." 

"How  was  Little  Jim  when  you  left?" 

"Just  fine!" 

"And  the  folks?" 

"Same  as  ever.    Miss  Gray — " 

"Well,  I  reckon  I'll  be  steppin'  along.  Glad  I 
saw  you  again." 

"Going  to  leave  town  to-night?" 

"I  aim  to." 

Bartley  could  no  longer  ignore  Cheyenne's 
attitude.  He  knew  that  something  had  hap- 
pened or  was  about  to  happen.  Cheyenne's 
manner  did  not  invite  question  or  suggestion. 
Yet  Bartley  had  promised  Dorothy  that  he 
would  exert  what  influence  he  had — and  it 
seemed  a  critical  time,  just  at  that  moment. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  a  minute,  if  you 
have  time,"  said  Bartley. 

"Won't  do  no  good,  pardner."  And  with- 
out waiting  for  Bartley  to  say  anything  more,, 
Cheyenne  stepped  up  to  him  and  held  out  hi& 
hand.  "So  long,"  he  said. 

"Well,  good  luck!"  replied  Bartley,  and 
shook  hands  with  him  heartily.  "I  hope  you 


win." 


Cheyenne  gestured  toward  the  door.    Bartley 


258  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

stepped  out  into  the  hallway.  The  light  in  the 
room  flickered  out. 

"I  reckon  you'll  be  goin'  back  to  your  hotel," 
said  Cheyenne.  "Wait.  I'll  just  step  down 
first." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Cheyenne  paused 
and  glanced  up  and  down  the  street.  Directly 
across  the  way  the  Hole-in-the-Wall  was  ablaze 
with  light.  A  few  doors  east  of  the  gambling- 
hall  an  indistinct  group  of  riders  sat  their  horses 
as  though  waiting  for  some  one.  Cheyenne 
drew  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  hallway. 

Bartley  peered  out  over  Cheyenne's  shoulder. 
From  up  the  street  in  the  opposite  direction 
came  the  distant  click  of  boot-heels.  A  figure 
strode  swiftly  toward  the  patch  of  white  light 
in  front  of  the  gambling-hall. 

"Just  stand  back  a  little,  pardner,"  said 
Cheyenne. 

Bartley  felt  his  heart  begin  to  thump  as 
Cheyenne  gently  loosened  his  gun  in  the  holster. 

"It's  Panhandle!"  whispered  Bartley,  as  the 
figure  of  Sears  was  silhouetted  against  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  place  opposite. 

Out  of  the  shadows  where  the  riders  waited 
came  a  single,  abrupt  word,  peremptory,  in- 
cisive :  '  *  Panhandle !' ' 


CHEYENNE  PLAYS  BIG  259 

Panhandle,  about  to  turn  into  the  lighted 
doorway,  stopped  short. 

Sneed  had  called  to  Panhandle;  but  it  was 
Posmo  the  Mexican  who  rode  forward  to  meet 
him.  Sneed,  close  behind  Posmo,  watched  to 
see  that  the  Mexican  carried  out  his  instructions, 
which  were  simply  to  tell  Panhandle  to  get  his 
horse  and  leave  town  with  them.  Seeing  the 
group  behind  the  Mexican,  Panhandle's  first 
thought  was  that  Posmo  had  betrayed  him  to 
the  authorities.  It  was  Posmo.  Panhandle 
recognized  the  Mexican's  pinto  horse. 

Enraged  by  what  he  thought  was  a  trap,  and 
with  drunken  contempt  for  the  man  he  had 
cheated,  Panhandle  jerked  out  his  gun  and 
fired  at  the  Mexican;  fired  again  at  the  bulky 
figure  behind  Posmo,  and  staggered  back  as  a 
slug  shattered  his  shoulder.  Cursing,  he  swung 
round  and  emptied  his  gun  into  the  blur  of 
riders  that  separated  and  spread  across  the 
street,  returning  his  fire  from  the  vantage  of 
the  shadows.  Flinging  his  empty  gun  at  the 
nearest  rider,  Panhandle  lurched  toward  the 
doorway  where  Cheyenne  and  Bartley  stood 
watching.  He  had  almost  made  the  curb  when 
he  lunged  and  fell.  He^rose  and  tried  to  crawl 
to  the  shelter  of  the  doorway.  One  of  Sneed's 


260  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

men  spurred  forward  and  shot  Panhandle  in  the 
back.  He  sank  down,  his  body  twitching. 

Bartley  gasped  as  he  saw  the  rider  deliberately 
throw  another  shot  into  the  dying  man.  Then 
Cheyenne's  arm  jerked  up.  The  rider  swerved 
and  pitched  from  the  saddle.  Another  of  Sneed's 
men  crossed  the  patch  of  light,  and  a  splinter 
ripped  from  the  door-casing  where  Cheyenne 
stood.  Cheyenne's  gun  came  down  again  and 
the  rider  pitched  forward  and  fell.  His  horse 
galloped  down  the  street.  Again  Cheyenne 
fired,  and  again.  Then,  in  the  sudden  stillness 
that  followed,  Cheyenne  stepped  out  and 
dragged  Panhandle  into  the  hallway.  Some 
one  shouted.  A  window  above  the  saloon  op- 
posite was  raised.  Doors  opened  and  men  came 
out,  questioning  each  other,  gathering  in  a  group 
in  front  of  the  Hole-in-the-Wall. 

Stunned  by  the  sudden  shock  of  events, 
the  snakelike  flash  of  guns  in  the  semi-darkness, 
and  the  realization  that  several  men  had  been 
gravely  wounded,  perhaps  killed,  Bartley  heard 
Cheyenne's  voice  as  though  from  a  distance. 

Cheyenne's  hand  was  on  Hartley's  arm. 
"Come  on.  The  game  is  closed  for  the  night." 

As  they  stepped  from  the  doorway  a  man 
stopped  them  and  asked  what  had  happened. 


CHEYENNE  PLAYS  BIG  261 

"We're  goin'  for  a  doctor,"  said  Cheyenne. 
"Somebody  got  hurt." 

Hastening  along  the  shadowy  wall  of  the  build- 
ing, they  turned  a  corner  and  by  a  roundabout 
way  reached  the  city  marshal's  office. 

The  marshal,  who  had  been  summoned  in 
haste,  was  at  his  desk.  "Sneed  and  his  bunch 
got  Panhandle,"  stated  Cheyenne  quietly.  "Mr. 
Bartley,  here,  saw  the  row.  Four  of  Sneed's 
men  are  down.  One  got  away." 

"Sure  it  was  Sneed?" 

"I  reckon  your  men  will  fetch  him  in,  right 
soon.  Panhandle  got  Sneed  and  a  Mexican, 
before  they  stopped  him." 

Colonel  Stevenson  glanced  at  Cheyenne's 
belt  and  holster.  Cheyenne  drew  his  gun  and 
handed  it  to  the  marshal.  "She's  fresh  loaded," 
he  said. 

"Cheyenne  emptied  his  gun  trying  to  fight 
off  the  men  who  killed  Panhandle,"  said  Bart- 
ley,  stepping  forward. 

"And  you're  sure  they  were  Sneed's  men?" 
queried  the  marshal. 

Cheyenne  nodded. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  marshal. 
"But  I'll  have  to  detain  you  both  until  after 
the  inquest." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TWO   TRAILS   HOME 

BARTLEY  was  the  chief  witness  at  the  inquest. 
He  told  his  story  in  a  manner  that  impressed 
the  coroner's  jury.  Senator  Brown  was  present, 
and  identified  one  of  the  dead  outlaws  as  Sneed. 
Posmo,  killed  by  Panhandle's  first  shot,  was 
known  in  Phoenix.  Panhandle,  riddled  with 
bullets,  was  also  identified  by  the  Senator, 
Cheyenne,  and  several  habitues  of  the  gambling- 
hall.  Bartley  himself  identified  the  body  of  one 
man  as  that  of  Hull. 

Cheyenne  was  the  last  witness  called.  He 
admitted  that  he  had  had  trouble  with  Pan- 
handle Sears,  and  that  he  was  looking  for  him 
when  the  fight  started;  that  Sneed  and  his  men 
had  unexpectedly  taken  the  quarrel  out  of  his 
hands,  and  that  he  had  fired  exactly  five  shots 
at  the  men  who  had  killed  Panhandle  and  it 
had  been  close  work,  and  easy.  Panhandle 
had  put  up  a  game  fight.  The  odds  had  been 
heavily  against  him.  He  had  been  stand- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  gambling-hall  doorway 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  S6S 

while  the  men  who  had  killed  him  had  been  in 
the  shadow.  "He  didn't  have  a  chance/'  con- 
cluded Cheyenne. 

"You  say  you  were  looking  for  this  man  Sears, 
and  yet  you  took  his  part  against  Sneed's  outfit?" 
queried  the  coroner. 

"I  didn't  just  say  so.  Mr.  Bartley  said 
that." 

"Mr.  Bartley  seems  to  be  the  only  disinter- 
ested witness  of  the  shooting,"  observed  the 
coroner. 

"If  there  is  any  further  evidence  needed  to 
convince  the  jury  that  Mr.  Bartley 's  statements 
are  impartial  and  correct,  you  might  read  this," 
declared  the  city  marshal.  "It  is  the  ante- 
mortem  statement  of  one  of  Sneed's  men,  taken 
at  the  hospital  at  three-fifteen  this  morning. 
He  died  at  four  o'clock." 

The  coroner  read  the  statement  aloud.  Ten 
minutes  later  the  verdict  was  given.  The  de- 
ceased, named  severally,  had  met  death  by 
gunshot  wounds,  at  the  hands  of  parties  unknown. 

It  was  a  caustic  verdict,  intended  for  the 
benefit  of  the  cattle-  and  horse-thieves  of  the 
Southwest.  It  conveyed  the  hint  that  the  city 
of  Phoenix  was  prompt  to  resent  the  presence 
of  such  gentry  within  its  boundaries.  One  of 


264  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  daily  papers  commented  upon  the  fact  that 
"the  parties  unknown"  must  have  been  fast 
and  efficient  gunmen.  Cheyenne's  name  was 
not  mentioned,  and  that  was  due  to  the  influence 
of  the  marshal,  Senator  Brown,  and  the  mayor, 
which  left  readers  of  the  papers  to  infer  that  the 
police  of  Phcenix  had  handled  the  matter  them- 
selves. 

Through  the  evidence  of  the  outlaw  who 
had  survived  long  enough  to  make  a  statement, 
the  Box-S  horses  were  traced  to  a  ranch  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Tucson,  identified,  and 
finally  returned  to  their  owner. 

The  day  following  the  inquest,  Bartley  and 
Cheyenne  left  Phcenix,  with  Fort  Apache  as 
their  first  tentative  destination,  and  with  the 
promise  of  much  rugged  and  wonderful  country 
in  between  as  an  incentive  to  journey  again  with 
his  companion,  although  Bartley  needed  no 
special  incentive.  At  close  range  Bartley  had 
beheld  the  killing  of  several  men.  And  he  could 
not  free  himself  from  the  vision  of  Panhandle 
crawling  toward  him  in  the  patch  of  white  light, 
the  flitting  of  horsemen  back  and  forth,  and  the 
red  flash  of  six-guns.  Bartley  was  only  too 
anxious  to  leave  the  place. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  two  days  out  of 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  265 

Phoenix  that  Cheyenne  mentioned  the  fight — • 
and  then  he  did  so  casually,  as  though  seeking 
an  opinion  from  his  comrade. 

Bartley  merely  said  he  was  glad  Cheyenne 
had  not  killed  Panhandle.  Cheyenne  pondered 
a  while,  riding  loosely,  and  gazing  down  at  the 
trail. 

"I  reckon  I  would  'a'  killed  him— if  I'd  'a' 
got  the  chance,"  he  said.  "I  meant  to.  No,  it 
wasn't  me  or  Panhandle  that  settled  that  argu- 
ment: it  was  somethin'  bigger  than  us.  Folks 
that  reads  about  the  fight,  knowin'  I  was  in 
Phoenix,  will  most  like  say  that  I  got  him.  Let 
'em  say  so.  I  know  I  didn't;  and  you  know  I 
didn't — -and  that's  good  enough  for  me." 

"And  Dorothy  and  Aunt  Jane  and  Little  Jim," 
said  Bartley. 

"Meanin'  Little  Jim  won't  have  to  grow  up 
knowin'  that  his  father  was  a  killer." 

"I  was  thinking  of  that." 

"Well,  right  here  is  where  I  quit  thinkin' 
about  it  and  talkin'  about  it.  If  that  dog  of 
yours  there  was  to  kill  a  coyote,  in  a  fair  fight, 
I  reckon  he  wouldn't  think  about  it  long.'* 

A  few  minutes  later  Cheyenne  spoke  of  the 
country  they  were  in. 

"She's  rough   and   unfriendly,   right   here," 


PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

he  said.  "But  north  a  ways  she  sure  makes 
up  for  it.  There's  big  spruce  and  high  mesas 
and  grass  to  your  pony's  knees  and  water  'most 
anywhere  you  look  for  it.  I  ain't  much  on 
huntin'.  But  there's  plenty  deer  and  wild 
turkey  up  that  way,  and  some  bear.  And  with 
a  bent  pin  and  a  piece  of  string  a  fella  can  catch 
all  the  trout  he  wants.  Arizona  is  a  mighty  sur- 
prisin*  State,  in  spots.  Most  folks  from  the 
East  think  she's  sagebrush  and  sand,  except 
the  Grand  Canon;  but  that's  kind  of  rented  out 
to  tourists,  most  of  the  time.  I  like  the  Painted 
Desert  better." 

"Where  haven't  you   been?"   said   Bartley, 
laughing. 

"Well,  I  ain't  been  North  for  quite  a  spell." 
And  Cheyenne  fell  silent,  thinking  of  Laramie, 
of  the  broad  prairies  of  Wyoming,  of  his  old 
homestead,  and  the  days  when  he  was  happy 
with  his  wife  and  Little  Jim.  But  he  was  not 
silent  long.  He  visioned  a  plan  that  he  might 
work  out,  after  he  had  seen  Aunt  Jane  and 
Uncle  Frank  again.  Meanwhile,  the  sun  was 
shining,  the  road  wound  among  the  ragged  hills, 
and  Filaree  and  Joshua  stepped  along  briskly, 
their  hoof-beats  suggesting  the  rhythm  of  a 
song. 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  267 

That  night  they  camped  in  the  hill  country 
not  far  from  a  crossroads  store.  In  the  morning 
they  bought  a  few  provisions  and  an  extra 
canteen. 

"There's  a  piece  of  country  between  here  and 
the  real  hills  that  is  like  to  be  dry,"  explained 
Cheyenne.  "We're  leavin'  the  road,  this  morn- 
in',  and  cuttin'  north.  She's  some  rough,  the 
way  we're  headed,  but  you'll  like  it." 

From  the  sagebrush  of  the  southern  slopes 
they  climbed  slowly  up  to  a  country  of  scattered 
juniper.  By  noon  they  were  among  the  pinons, 
following  a  dim  bridle  trail  that  Cheyenne's 
horses  seemed  to  know. 

"In  a  couple  of  days,  I  aim  to  spring  a  sur- 
prise on  you,"  said  Cheyenne  as  they  turned 
in  that  night.  "I  figure  to  show  you  somethin* 
you  been  wantin'  to  see." 

"Bring  on  your  bears,"  said  Bartley,  laughing. 

Cheyenne's  moodiness  had  vanished.  Fre- 
quently he  hummed  his  old  trail  song  as  they 
rode.  Next  day,  as  they  nooned  among  the 
spruce  of  the  high  country,  Cheyenne  suddenly 
drew  the  dice  from  his  pocket  and,  turning 
them  in  his  hands,  finally  tossed  them  over  the 
rim-rock  of  the  canon  edging  their  camp.  "It's 
a  fool  game,"  he  said.  And  Bartley  knew,  by 


268  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

the  other's  tone,  that  he  did  not  alone  refer  to 
the  game  of  dice. 

The  air  was  thin,  clear,  and  vital  with  a 
quality  that  the  air  of  the  lower  country  lacked. 
Bartley  felt  an  ambition  to  settle  down  and 
go  to  writing.  He  thought  that  he  now  had 
material  enough  and  to  spare.  They  were  in 
a  country,  vast,  fenceless,  verdant — -almost  awe- 
some in  its  timbered  silences.  His  imagination 
was  stirred. 

From  their  noon  camp  they  rode  into  the 
timber  and  from  the  timber  into  a  mountain 
meadow,  knee-deep  with  lush  grass.  There 
was  no  visible  trail  across  the  meadow  but  the 
horses  seemed  to  know  which  way  to  go.  After 
crossing  the  meadow,  Filaree,  leading  the  caval- 
cade, turned  and  took  a  steep  trail  down  the 
side  of  a  hidden  canon,  a  mighty  chasm,  rock- 
walled  and  somber.  At  the  bottom  the  horses 
drank,  and,  crossing  the  stream,  climbed  the 
farther  side.  In  an  hour  they  were  again  on 
the  rim,  plodding  noiselessly  through  the  sun- 
flecked  shadows  of  the  giant  spruce. 

"How  about  that  surprise?"  queried  Bartley. 

"Ain't  this  good  enough?"  said  Cheyenne, 
gesturing  roundabout. 

"Gosh,  yes!    Lead  on,  Macduff." 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  269 

About  four  that  afternoon  the  horses  pricked 
their  ears  and  quickened  their  pace.  Filaree  and 
Joshua  especially  seemed  interested  in  getting 
along  the  silent  trail;  and  presently  the  trail 
merged  with  another  trail,  more  defined.  A 
few  hundred  yards  down  this  trail,  and  Bartley 
saw  a  big  log  cabin;  to  the  left  and  beyond  it  a 
corral,  empty,  and  with  the  bars  down.  Bartley 
had  never  seen  the  place  before,  and  did  not 
realize  where  he  was,  yet  he  had  noticed  that  the 
horses  seemed  to  know  the  place. 

"We  won't  stop  by,"  said  Cheyenne. 

"Any  one  live  there?" 

"Sneed  used  to,"  stated  Cheyenne. 

Then  Bartley  knew  that  they  were  not  far 
from  the  San  Andreas  Valley  and — well,  the 
Lawrence  ranch. 

They  dropped  down  a  long  trail  into  another 
canon  which  finally  spread  to  a  green  valley 
dotted  with  ranches.  The  horses  stepped 
briskly.  Presently,  rounding  a  bend,  they  saw 
a  ranch-house,  far  below,  and  sharply  defined 
squares  of  alfalfa. 

"That  house  with  the  red  roof — "  said  Bart- 
ley. 

"That's  her,"  asserted  Cheyenne,  a  trifle 
ambiguously. 


270  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Then  we've  swung  round  in  a  circle." 

"We  done  crossed  the  res'avation,  pardner. 
And  we  didn't  see  a  dog-gone  Injun." 

Little  Jim  was  the  first  to  catch  sight  of 
them  as  they  jogged  down  the  last  stretch 
of  trail  leaving  the  foothills.  He  recognized 
the  horses  long  before  their  riders  were  near 
enough  to  be  identified  as  his  father  and  Hartley. 

Little  Jim  did  not  rush  to  Aunt  Jane  and  tell 
her  excitedly  that  they  were  coming.  Instead, 
he  quietly  saddled  up  his  pony  and  rode  out  to 
meet  them.  Part-way  up  the  slope  he  waited. 

His  greeting  was  not  effusive.  "I  just  thought 
I'd  ride  up  and  tell  you  folks  that — that  I  seen 
you  comin'." 

"How  goes  the  hunting?"  queried  Bartley. 

"Fine!  I  got  six  rabbits  yesterday.  Dorry 
is  gittin'  so  she  can  shoot  pretty  good,  too. 
How  you  makin'  it,  dad?" 

Cheyenne  pushed  back  his  hat  and  gazed 
at  his  young  son.  "Pretty  fair,  for  an  old  man," 
said  Cheyenne  presently.  "You  been  behavin' 
yourself?" 

"Sure." 

"How  would  you  like  to  ride  a  real  hoss, 
once?" 

"You  mean  your  hoss?" 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  271 

"Uh-huh." 

'Til  trade  you,  even." 

"No,  you  won't,  son.  But  you  can  ride  him 
down  to  the  ranch,  if  you  like." 

Little  Jim  almost  tumbled  from  his  pony  in 
his  eagerness  to  ride  Joshua,  his  father's  horse, 
with  the  big  saddle  and  rope  and  the  carbine 
under  the  stirrup  leather. 

"You  musta  made  a  long  ride,"  declared 
Jimmy,  as  he  scrambled  up  on  Joshua.  "Josh's 
shoes  is  worn  thin.  He'll  be  throwin'  one,  next." 

Jimmy  called  attention  to  the  horse's  shoes, 
that  his  father  and  Bartley  might  not  see  how 
really  pleased  he  was  to  ride  a  "real  horse." 

"Yes,  a  long  ride.  How  is  Aunt  Jane  and 
Dorry?" 

"Oh,  they're  all  right.  Uncle  Frank  he  cut 
twenty-two  tons  of  alfalfa  off  the  lower  field 
last  week." 

Cheyenne  sat  sideways  on  Jimmy's  pony  as 
they  rode  down  the  last  easy  slope  and  turned 
into  the  ranch  gate.  Aunt  Jane,  who  was  busy 
cooking, — -it  seemed  that  Aunt  Jane  was  always 
busy  cooking  something  or  other,  when  she 
wasn't  dressmaking  or  mending  clothing  or 
ironing,' — greeted  them  warmly.  Frank  was 
working  down  at  the  lower  end.  Dorry  had 


272  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

gone  to  San  Andreas.  She  would  be  back  'most 
any  time,  now.  And  weren't  they  hungry? 

They  were.  And  there  was  fresh  milk  and 
pie.  But  they  put  up  the  horses  first. 

Later,  Cheyenne  and  Little  Jim  decided  to 
walk  down  to  the  lower  end  of  the  ranch  and  see 
Uncle  Frank.  Cheyenne  had  washed  his  hands 
and  face  before  eating,  as  had  Hartley.  But 
Bartley  did  not  let  it  go  at  that.  He  begged 
some  hot  water  and  again  washed  and  shaved, 
brushed  his  clothes,  and  changed  his  flannel 
shirt  for  a  clean  one.  Then  he  strolled  to  the 
kitchen  and  chatted  with  Aunt  Jane,  who  had 
read  of  the  killing  of  the  outlaws  in  Phoenix,  and 
had  many  questions  to  ask.  It  had  been  a 
terrible  tragedy.  And  Mr.  Bartley  had  actually 
seen  the  shooting? 

Aunt  Jane  was  glad  that  Cheyenne  had  not 
been  mixed  up  in  it,  especially  as  that  man 
Sears  had  been  killed.  But  now  that  he  had 
been  killed,  people  would  talk  less  about  her 
brother.  It  really  had  seemed  an  act  of  Provi- 
dence that  Cheyenne  had  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  shooting.  Of  course,  Mr.  Bartley 
knew  about  the  trouble  that  her  brother  had 
had — -and  why  he  had  never  settled  down — • 

"His  name  was  not  mentioned  in  the  papers," 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  27$ 

said  Bartley,  thinking  that  he  must  say  some- 
thing. 

"There's  Dorry,  now,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  glanc- 
ing through  the  kitchen  window. 

Bartley  promptly  excused  himself  and  stepped 
out  to  the  gate,  which  he  vaulted  and  opened  as 
Dorothy  waved  a  greeting.  Bartley  carried  the 
groceries  in,  and  later  helped  unhitch  the  team. 
They  chatted  casually  neither  referring  to  the 
subject  uppermost  in  their  minds* 

When  Cheyenne  returned,  riding  on  a  load  of 
alfalfa  with  Uncle  Frank  and  Little  Jim,  Bartley 
managed  to  let  Uncle  Frank  know  that  he  was 
not  supposed  to  have  had  a  hand  in  the  Phoenix 
affair.  Cheyenne  thanked  him. 

"But  you  ain't  talked  with  Dorry,  yet,  have 
you?"  queried  Cheyenne. 

Bartley  shook  his  head. 

"She'll  find  out,"  stated  Cheyenne.  "You 
can't  fool  Dorry." 

That  evening,  while  Uncle  Frank  and  Chey- 
enne were  discussing  a  matter  which  seemed 
confidential  to  themselves,  and  while  Aunt  Jane 
was  quietly  keeping  an  eye  on  Jimmy,  who  could 
hardly  keep  from  interrupting  his  seniors — 
Bartley  and  Dorry  didn't  count,  just  then,  for 


274  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

they  were  also  talking  together — 'Dorothy  inti- 
mated to  Bartley  that  she  would  like  to  talk 
with  him  alone.  She  did  not  say  so,  nor  make 
any  gesture  to  indicate  her  wish,  yet  Bartley 
interpreted  her  expression  correctly. 

He  suggested  that  they  step  out  to  the  ver- 
anda, where  it  was  cooler.  From  the  veranda 
they  strolled  to  the  big  gate,  and  there  she  asked 
him,  point-blank,  to  tell  her  just  what  had  hap- 
pened in  Phoenix.  She  had  read  the  papers, 
and  she  surmised  that  there  was  more  to  the 
affair  than  the  papers  printed.  For  instance, 
Senator  Brown,  upon  his  return  to  the  Box-S, 
had  kindly  sent  word  to  Aunt  Jane  that  Chey- 
enne was  all  right.  Bartley  thought  that  the 
thoughtful  Senator  had  rather  spilled  the  beans. 

"Did  Cheyenne — •"  and  Dorothy  hesitated. 

"Cheyenne  didn't  kill  Sears,"  stated  Bartley. 

"You  talked  with  Cheyenne,  and  got  him  to 
keep  out  of  it?" 

"I  tried  to.  He  wouldn't  listen.  Then  I 
wished  him  good  luck  and  told  him  I  hoped  he'd 


Dorothy  was  puzzled.  "How  do  you  know 
he  didn't?" 

"Because  I  was  standing  beside  him  when  it 
happened.  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  know 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  275 

about  it.  Cheyenne  and  I  were  just  about  to 
cross  the  street,  that  night,  when  we  saw  Pan- 
handle coming  down  the  opposite  side.  Sneed 
and  his  men,  who  were  evidently  waiting  for 
him,  called  to  Panhandle.  Panhandle  must 
have  thought  it  was  the  sheriff,  or  the  city 
marshal.  It  happened  suddenly.  Panhandle 
began  firing  at  Sneed  and  his  riders.  They  shot 
him  down  just  as  he  reached  the  curb  in  front  of 
us.  They  kept  on  shooting  at  him  as  he  lay  in 
the  street.  Cheyenne  couldn't  stand  that.  He 
emptied  his  gun,  trying  to  keep  them  off — and 
he  emptied  some  saddles." 

"Thank  you  for  trying  to — to  give  Cheyenne 
my  message,"  said  Dorothy.  And  she  shook 
hands  with  him. 

"Do  you  know  this  is  the  loveliest  vista  I 
have  seen  since  leaving  Phoenix — -this  San  An- 
dreas Valley,"  said  Bartley. 

"But  you  came  through  the  Apache  Forest," 
said  Dorothy,  not  for  the  sake  of  argument,  but 
because  Bartley  was  still  holding  her  hand. 

"Yes.  But  you  don't  happen  to  live  in  the 
Apache  Forest." 

"But,  Mr.  Bartley—" 

"John,  please." 

"Cheyenne  calls  you  Jack." 


276  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"Better  still.  Do  you  think  Aunt  Jane  would 
mind  if  we  walked  up  the  road  as  far  as — -well, 
as  far  as  the  spring?" 

"Hadn't  you  better  ask  her?" 

"No.  But  she  wouldn't  object.  Would  you?" 

Slowly  Dorothy  withdrew  her  hand  and  Bart- 
ley  opened  the  big  gate.  As  they  walked  down 
the  dim,  starlit  road  they  were  startled  by  the 
advent  of  a  yellow  dog  that  bounded  from  the 
brush  and  whined  joyously. 

"And  I  had  forgotten  him,"  said  Bartley. 
"Oh,  he's  mine !  I  can't  get  away  from  the  fact. 
He  adopted  me,  and  has  followed  me  clear 
through.  I  had  forgotten  that  he  is  afraid  to 
come  into  a  ranch.  And  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  I  forgot  to  feed  him,  to-night.  He  isn't  at 
all  beautiful,  but  he's  tremendously  loyal." 

"And  he  shall  have  a  good  supper  when  we 
get  back,"  declared  Dorothy. 

The  yellow  dog  padded  along  behind  them  in 
the  dusk,  content  to  be  with  his  master  again. 
Bartley  talked  with  Dorothy  about  his  plans, 
his  hopes,  and  her  promise  to  become  the  heroine 
of  his  new  story.  Then  he  surprised  her  by 
stating  that  he  had  decided  to  make  a  home  in 
the  San  Andreas  Valley. 

"You  really  don't  know  anything  about  me, 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  277 

or  my  people,"  he  said.  "And  I  want  you  to 
know.  My  only  living  relative  is  my  sister, 
and  she  is  scandalously  well-to-do.  Her  hus- 
band makes  money  manufacturing  hooks  and 
eyes.  He's  not  romantic,  but  he's  solid.  As 
for  m<^" 

And  Bartley  spoke  of  his  own  income,  just 
what  he  could  afford  to  spend  each  month,  and 
just  how  much  he  managed  to  save,  and  his 
ambition  to  earn  more.  Dorothy  realized  that 
he  was  talking  to  her  just  as  he  would  have 
talked  to  a  chum — a  man  friend,  without  re- 
serve, and  she  liked  him  for  it.  She  had  been 
curious  about  him,  his  vocation,  and  even  about 
his  plans ;  and  she  felt  a  glow  of  affection  because 
he  had  seemed  so  loyal  to  his  friendship  with 
Cheyenne,  and  because  he  had  been  kind  to 
Little  Jim  Hastings.  While  doing  so  with  no 
other  thought  than  to  please  the  boy,  Bartley 
had  made  no  mistake  in  buying  him  that  new  rifle. 

As  they  came  to  the  big  rock  by  the  roadside 
— -a  spot  which  Bartley  had  good  reason  to 
remember — he  paused  and  glanced  at  Dorothy. 
She  was  laughing. 

"You  looked  so  funny  that  day.  You  were 
the  most  dilapidated-looking  person — -for  a 
writer — " 


£78  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"I  imagine  I  was,  after  Hull  got  through  with 
me.  Let's  sit  down  awhile.  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  should  like  to  do.  Are  you  comfortable?" 

Dorothy  nodded. 

"Well,"  said  Bartley,  seating  himself  beside 
her,  "I  should  like  to  rent  a  small  place  in  the 
valley,  a  place  just  big  enough  for  two,  and  then 
settle  down  and  write  this  story.  Then,  if  I  sold 
it,  I  think  I  should  lock  up,  get  a  pack-horse  and 
another  saddle-horse,  outfit  for  a  long  trip,  and 
then  take  the  trail  north  and  travel  for,  say,  six 
months,  seeing  the  country,  camping  along  the 
way,  visiting  with  folks,  and  incidentally  gath- 
ering material  for  another  story.  It  could  be 
done." 

"But  why  rent  a  place,  if  you  plan  to  leave  it 
right  away?" 

"Because  I  should  want  a  home  to  come  to, 
a  place  to  think  of  when  I  was  on  the  trails.  You 
know  a  fellow  can't  wander  up  and  down  the 
world  forever.  I  like  to  travel,  but  I  think  a 
chap  ought  to  spend  at  least  half  a  year  under  a 
roof.  Don't  you?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Cheyenne,"  said  Dorothy 
musingly. 

"I  think  of  him  a  great  deal,"  declared 
Bartley. 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  279 

Dorothy  glanced  up  at  him  from  her  pon- 
dering. 

Bartley  leaned  toward  her.  "Dorothy,  will 
you  help  me  make  that  home,  here  in  the  valley, 
and  be  my  comrade  on  the  trails?" 

"Hadn't  you  better  ask  Aunt  Jane?"  said 
Dorothy  softly,  yet  with  a  touch  of  humor. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  Hartley's  voice  was  boy- 
ishly enthusiastic,  like  the  voice  of  a  chum,  a 
hearty  comrade.  "But  how  about  your  own 
folks?" 

Dorothy's  answer  was  not  given  then  and 
there,  in  words.  Nor  yet  by  gesture,  nor  in  any 
visible  way — -there  being  no  moon  that  early  in 
the  evening.  After  a  brief  interval — or,  at 
least,  it  seemed  brief — they  rose  and  strolled 
back  down  the  road,  the  yellow  dog  padding 
faithfully  at  their  heels.  Presently — • 

"Hey,  Dorry!"  came  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"It's  the  scout!"  exclaimed  Bartley,  laughing. 

"We're  coming,  Jimmy,"  called  Dorothy. 

"But  before  we're  taken  into  custody — "  said 
Bartley;  and  as  mentioned  before,  the  moon  had 
not  appeared. 

Little  Jim,  astride  of  the  ranch  gate,  queru- 
lously demanded  where  they  had  been  and  why 
they  had  not  told  him  they  were  going  somewhere. 


*80  PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE 

"And  you  left  the  gate  open,  and — every- 
thing!" concluded  Jimmy. 

"We  just  went  for  a  walk,"  said  Dorothy. 

"What's  the  use  of  walkin'  up  the  old  road  in 
the  dark?"  queried  Jimmy.  "You  can't  see 
anything." 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  rabbit  hunt  to-morrow 
morning  early?"  asked  Bartley. 

"Nope!"  declared  Little  Jim  decisively. 
"  'Cause  my  dad  was  talkin'  with  Aunt  Jane 
and  Uncle  Frank,  and  dad  says  me  and  him  are 
goin'  back  to  Laramie  where  ma  is.  And  we're 
goin'  on  the  train.  Aunt  Jane  she  cried.  But 
shucks!  We  ain't  goin'  to  stay  in  Laramie  all 
the  time.  Dad  says  if  things  rib  up  right,  me 
and  ma  and  him  are  comin'  back  to  live  in  the 
valley.  Don't  you  wish  you  was  goin', 
Dorry?" 

"You  run  along  and  tell  Aunt  Jane  we're 
coming,"  said  Bartley. 

Little  Jim  hesitated.  But  then,  Mr.  Bartley 
had  bought  him  that  new  rifle.  Jimmy  pattered 
down  the  path  to  the  lighted  doorway,  delivered 
his  message,  and  pattered  back  again  toward  the 
gate,  wasting  no  time  en  route.  Halfway  to  the 
gate  he  stopped.  Mr.  Bartley  was  standing 
very  close  to  Dorry — in  fact,  Jimmy  was 


TWO  TRAILS  HOME  281 

amazed  to  see  him  kiss  her.  Jimmy  turned  and 
trotted  back  to  the  house. 

"Shucks !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  he  liked 
guns  and  things  more'n  girls!" 

But  Jimmy  was  too  loyal  to  tell  what  he  had 
seen.  After  all,  Dorry  was  mighty  fine,  for  a 
girl.  She  could  ride  and  shoot,  and  she  never 
told  on  him  when  he  had  done  wrong. 

With  a  skip  and  a  hop  Jimmy  burst  into  the 
room.  "We're  goin'  on  the  /rain,"  he  declared. 
"Ain't  we,  dad?" 

Dorothy  and  Hartley  came  in.  Bartley 
glanced  at  Cheyenne,  hesitated,  and  then  thrust 
out  his  hand. 

"Good  luck  to  your  new  venture,"  he  said 
heartily. 

"Same  to  you,  pardner!"  And  Cheyenne  in- 
cluded Dorry  in  his  glance. 

"I  want  to  ask  Aunt  Jane's  advice,"  stated 
Bartley. 

"Then,"  said  Cheyenne,  "I  reckon  me  and 
Frank  and  Jimmy'll  step  out  and  take  a  look  at 
the  stars.  She's  a  wonderful  night." 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
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